Now, my heart is paper,
fragile to malice...

Drifting with black sails
through the freezing air...

I weep now, for longing;
I sob for another night of mental unrest...

The butterfly glows as luminescent blood
as it stretches it massive wingspan...

Seven cycles of the seasons later,
and I'm still gluing back together...

Life is but the fleeting dream of a passing...
death is as ephemeral as the sun...

Do they remember,
our promises back then...

For a third of my life
I've worshiped Death...

As I continue to traverse the vast expanse of the...
I can't help but remain wary of the providence...

Sometimes it feels like my soul is a record...
Not some fancy state-of-the-art machinery...

It's almost time for your funeral, my little...
and though it's too far away for me to be there...

My heart is empty; my soul is divided.
I am but a hollow shell of my former selves...