We leave with heavy hearts and hollow hands. We breathe 
and look for life on a summer's night. We see it's the 
heavy thoughts, the weights of sand. O we get so weighed 
down and thereby drown in a sea of fever dreams and 
midnight screams until we finally see. The stars are 
brighter when you die; until then they haunt you every 
night. Biting our own hands until the feed has run dry. 
Writing in the sand the ephemeral. O shoreline, can we 
keep up with the knowledge offered us? The endless stream 
will never be enough. Don't waste your blood, we're 
vessels in an endless flood, but fear the sound of 
rushing love. This day wants you to pull the rug from 
underneath the puppet you have come to be.