Blankets and clothing like missed identities pepper the stage as lost madmen and women find their place
Hanging from grids, twisting, unfree birds flapping with broken, crying insect wings
The old one can’t accept this new world’s burnt and tainted ways, will not accept the future’s hopeless wars and incestual, retarded language
People are screaming for something to be beautiful, cracking voices voiced through malnutritioned wire bodies
These songs dare to last longer than they naturally can
This world is becoming terrifyingly aware of its life expectancy
The something that is beautiful is when the world keeps dancing, even in its pain, a dance without thought or cynicism, a dance without regret or fear of what comes next.