Stars with stains and heaven and afterglow Beneath the ashes of echoes burried alive They are howling through hollows Once we share their temple of our arms Now our heads are hung up on the wall
He once cut out one of my nightmares out of paper I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover And I tried to tell him that he had a sense of color and composition so magnificent And he said "thank you, please, but your flattery is truly not becoming me. Your eyes are poor. You are blind. You see, no beauty could have come from me. I am a waste of breath, of space, of time.