And the silence between us,
You and the world,
Me and the crazy,
Chewing our nails down to
The bone
Breaking neck paranoia,
With the high so low
It bottoms us into the normal
Where nothing makes sense,
The loss of the addiction
Leaves us in the confusion
Of the world.

In the old part of town
There are still cobbled streets
And at one time
These streets were surrounded
By living working mills
Marking the towns heartbeat
Twenty-four hours a day
Seven days a week
The machines hammered the air
As the flying shuttles were cracked
From side to side of the weft
On more than a hundred looms
It sounded like a battlefield
And some would say it was

But that was long ago
And now the mills are dead
The buildings still stand
But inside they are broken
Housing many more
Modern endeavours
And in one of these old buildings
Within the same crusty bricks
There's another world that lives
In the dark hours at least
There's a night club that throbs
To the sound of bands playing
Different rhythms for the town
And the neon lights outside
Shine on the same old cobble stones

                                        By Phil Roberts

The first solitaries of the desert will tell you
Animals and birds make friends with those alone
and no harm will come to those who have left all behind
indeed He will command His Angels to keep you in all your ways.