At sunrise the seagulls all swarm around the steeple of 
the church that stands tall in the middle of town. It's 
six on a Sunday and babies are crying, their mothers 
caught lying awake in their beds saying, 'Not yet. Not 
yet. We could paint it white, under the disguise of 
infinite light.' Now everyone's tired in this tiny town 
and resentment grows up from way deep underground. While 
the faucets keep leaking and the floorboards keep 
creaking, we all lie and listen to the symphonic sounds 
that say, 'You know it's happening later tonight. So, you 
savor the minutes you usually fight. We all had a hand in 
this brilliant disease. We all fed the cause of 
catastrophe.' You don't know what you see when it 
stretches far enough away from me. And it seems our love 
will have too soon expired, the night the whole world 
caught on fire. Now the dust settles down from the cold, 
cloudy air. And the few men left standing just silently 
stare at the forests that glow with the forty-foot flames 
and the ocean that's screaming the sound of your name. 
So, I pick up a shovel-- the last thing to do-- and I dig 
a great hole and go in search of you.