When the sky comes falling down, and fire falls from the heavens, when the waves come to flood the land and death surrounds the world, none can convince the certain that the nightmare has never been so.
A subtle drink in a moment, where the sounds grow quiet in a world growing ever darker, ever more quiet as ever more heads lay themselves down on ever more pillows.
There is a fine and delicate line one walks in pursuit of peace or silence. Those who confuse the two shall often find little peace, and only momentary silence.
Burned long ago by the fire of future, what was is no longer.
Upon the winds comes a message, not by echoes, calls or horns. A message in a language lost by those who themselves grow separate from nature itself.