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Now it's my turn to dream of the skies so far above and wish that i were the clouds drifting freely. To dream only of the clouds, to dream that my tears were the rain falling onto the heads of the millions so far below, to watch in my slow, unending sadness as everything passes slowly by, to be forgotten the next instant.

Now it's my turn to dream of the dark abyss one calls death, to wish to once more hear the sweet sound of Death's Bell, to hear the slow melodic toll and be mesmerized, to be drawn like a moth to the flame. To dream of sitting on bloody hands and knees, reaching up at the sky for the heaven and be abandoned by the angels, to be scorned by God, mocked, shamed by everything that i once had loved.