Something is wrong at the hour of midnight.
Figures dancing, prancing 'round the clock...

We were to be the future.
To jettison sweet memories...

Automatic
Pristine...

Come any, come all,
To the Carnival of Horror...

The soul has no domain behind
The eyes of viewers in...

The fear of truth in the written word
subtle, prolific and clean...

And shall the clay speak?
Shall it ask of the the hands that shape it...

Well it comes again to the writing desk
where my quills have all absconded...

The human mind
(I think you'll find...

I came walking all at once
Down a dingy public by-street...

We're all trav'lers, aren't we?
We know not where we go...