Pale soul sold on the banks of the river while the bodies float by and he wonders which ones he killed. He can see the end of time and it frightens him.

It's alright to destroy me because I don't have any feelings.

When you kiss the sky do you think of me?

I am disintegrating but don't worry--I have a ride.

Candy appled fantasies manufactured in the neglected parts of my soul. It is a statement--not a sentence. The sentence is dead. What you see here are remains.

Whistle a dirge and maybe you will feel better.