You are the watcher, the private on point. May a feature presentation extol your virtues, Private, as hero or waif, as you suffer this dark night of the soul. The horror, the horror. No one is safe. This brave new world that is about to die salutes you.
Film credits descend over the final fade.
This is the end. . . In confirmation that our dreams live on. But, lonely seller, from your tired face, I see your flowers are only goods to sell Without innate significance. Sadness Alas these prolific times alone, And how of thee I do so concern, So much love that died before it d shown, Those caring words, to my heart were returned. Like the constant season returning, This eternal onset of what has died, An abyss for my soul 'tis burning, A field of languish infinitely wide.