|
[ti:] |
|
[ar:] |
|
[al:] |
| [00:25.41] |
It's been sixty days |
| [00:36.51] |
Since the black sky opened up the food-gates. |
| [00:48.56] |
Fell down hard on the sun-stained fair-grounds. |
| [00:57.51] |
|
| [00:59.90] |
Held back any |
| [01:06.57] |
Recollection |
| [01:11.50] |
Of the bloodshed |
| [01:18.26] |
Somehow. |
| [01:24.54] |
And now |
| [01:31.73] |
This unending rain |
| [01:41.68] |
Stopping short on the surface of the watery graves |
| [01:54.67] |
Is another, even nicer, |
| [02:06.17] |
Simpler sort of silence these days. |
| [02:15.31] |
Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague. |
| [02:25.49] |
|
| [02:29.27] |
This is what he wrote in the ripped-up note: |
| [02:35.09] |
I've become something even less than a ghost. |
| [02:40.66] |
Even more of a though, I've become a mirage. |
| [02:49.52] |
I'm the shaky air encircling the flickering flame. |
| [03:00.95] |
I'm the white wall swallowing the window frame. |
| [03:10.25] |
|
| [03:12.44] |
Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague. |
| [03:23.94] |
|
