On the hills thtoughtime, my visions run like hell. The burning fire within them rolls and whirls around like it's trying to escape the insanity. Tears flow through through my veigns while I pour a cup of blood for anything that wants to drink tea with the certainty of getting healthier by crying. That's ritght, they'll learn you how to shed some tears for the amusement of getting you're illness out of your head. Stone walls facing the music coming from the sea, whith the two suns, moon-lit craters on their frozen darkness in the sky. Alluring melodies of beverages in a chair. An armchair on deck, like anyone else sits here. I'm here, drinking, watching the sky skid by and feeling the drops of sour tears sinking down in the fabric of my pants. They'll freeze over in the cold rushing seawinter. I'm all alone here, the ship's called the Mary Spoonhedge and it's heading for the steet of wherever they needed it the most. The port is made of glass houses and cheering people. They're probably waiting for our arrival on the wooden terrace. Waving in oldfashioned clothes. What bad news I have for them. I'm all alone here. A ghost on a ghostship. A fitting end with no steering weel. Like me, it will drink and cry soon at the bottom of the sea. Listening to tomorrow. Resting.