An address to the stillborn, lost brothers in arms; To see the cursed earth claim to providence; We're burning the carcass clean. We pretend-but we never sleep.
500 miles to the faultline.
As if we almost believed it. "Strapped to the back of a live grenade"
If there was ever a saviour. She'd be the first to leave.
500 miles to the faultline. Ten thousand leagues through
Equal in death only, subject to Inhuman, suspending reality; what you see is truthful, but lacking. Perfect rejects, we're all incomplete. We die. beneath the faultlines.
500 miles to the faultline. We hesitate at the light.