In the direction of the blood that runs from a fresh cut throat, we run down.
From the perspective of a dead man's eyes staring up at dead men walking tall.
We face up to look down.
We breathe out just to hear something else.
There's a connection like a mid-air collision makes a point to kiss each other goodbye.
By the looks on your faces, I bet you've never seen blood run this thin and cold.
It goes down like ocean water breathed into the lungs, like glass swallowed and spit up.
1 | Of Misery And Toil |
2 | Finger To The Pulse |
3 | Non Monumental |
4 | In Rapid Succession |
5 | Born In Vein |
6 | All The Wretched |
7 | A Shortness Of Breath |
8 | Nothing But Teeth |
9 | A Sad State In Affairs |