Carrion with your illusions  
stricken with a fear of here
after. There is no pain,
no thought, no more masks;
what was hidden isn't pretty, but
more beautiful than words describe.

Sing, since the sounds of creation!
Sing till the hounds of desolation! Roll
this dancing digital hologram;
It, is all of it's self, and We are It, i and its:
together we are a planetary organism.


Death will come soon in various ways
when the candle burns from all sides,
it no longer matters how much time you have,
the flames will consume everything.
The sands of time are proof enough:
disintegration renders all to cinders on the ground.