The hollow horn plays wasted words, proves to warn that he not busy being born is busy dying.
All the money you made will never buy back your soul.
We have never arrived. We are in a constant state of becoming.
Cop comes down the street crazy as a loon, he throws us in jail for carrying harpoons.
I can't see my reflection in the waters, I can't speak the sounds that show no pain. I can't hear the echo of my footsteps, or can't remember the sound of my own name.
In ceremonies of the horsemen, even the pawn must hold a grudge.