Besedila: Thursday. Where The Circle Ends.

Mountain ranges
Mourning red bay at the bridges
Stab up at the coming blue horizon
Grey slides loosely off rooftops
Lands on the incandescent ground and dies
A flock of little men touch down on the surface of the porchlight
Bronze fist soldiers return
To watch the twilight across the faces
Skylights ignite and explode
Scattering shards of april around the room
No one even lives here
We're too busy crashing our cars every morning at the same house
Paving the same roads
Unwilling to walk them
And even when we extend ourselves, its only to be included
In a world that's standing still
And so often we don't struggle to improve conditions
We struggle for the right to say "we improve conditions"
And so often we form communities
Only to use them as exclusionary devices
And we forget that somewhere man is beside himself with grief
And somewhere people are calling for teachers
And no one's answering
Somwhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose on the door
And somewhere these people are keeping records
And writing a book
For now we can call it "The Book About the Basic Flaw
Or "The Book About the Letter "N"
Or "Any Title That a Book About a Man That No One Cares About Might Have"
And as we turn the pages we call out the sounds of nothing
The sounds of a vanishing alphabet
Standing here waiting