There’s a fortress of past lives and it’s dressed    in gold hats and costumes of gold thread and wool.   i need the right words to do the breakwork,    i’ll use them as my hammering tool.       I’ll take the rythms, the choirs,   the sad sun songs, i’ll store them under my childhood bed.    Here i’m gonna play the role of the living   until i drop dead.       i need a hole in the mountain    where truth can be found    with no room for remains of our past.   I need my skin to be my future coffin,    nothing else can live up to the task.    If the lakes turn around and empty over their crowns    and the paper will wash away...   maybe all our new sounds will grow strong and grow loud   and i’ll come back and stay.       But we won’t dance we won’t dance we won’t dance we won’t dance on their graves, you and me.    but my bone marrow pen draws a line from our first breath to wherever we’ll be.