Death is like a crack on the windshield of my car
I can see that crack's dissemination...

He is so poor.
He has nothing yet honesty...

Space is as the result of our disunion
the scatter of our holy communion...

What we call personal
is not...

The unknown is always
guarded by senseless meaning...

The urge to tell stories,
to tell the story...

Our childhood fades, its dream undone,
and wonder hides from everyone...

The nature of dream
is wakefulness...

The key, is
that there are no keys...

Your smile,
the white queue of musical tone...

They looked down upon him in dirt in derision.
They never saw him they saw themselves...

There is a void inside me because
I want to be more than me...