• You dug our graves, yet I'm not ready for bed.
    I'm still living an eternal nightmare, the movie's not over.
    Our lives are tarnished, drawn out on a single thread held by the only remaining spool in the treasure chest.
    You want us to be the best, but we don't weave ourselves, the robotic needles do, writing our actions in granite, regardless of what we do.
    We will never have a clean slate, our plates convey to us what the knives and forks embedded the night we decided to give in to temptation and eat.
    Put it in the light, and it recites our memories, in an almost perfect lullaby that astonishes even the most skilled of historians.
    But we evolved, writing our scripts with inkless pens, erasing only the things we wished. Yet we are not perfect, mechanics can leave out parts as well, their cigarette ashes the chemical reaction of a moral-torn world.