There's a ghost that grows inside of us, damaged in the making
And there's a hunt sprung from necessity, elliptical and drowned
Where the moving quiet of our insomnia offers up each thought
There's a luminous field of grey inertia
And obsidian dreams burned all the way down
Arabesque ink wandering, winds itself around our ovate dreams
We seem to speak only in the imprecise
Geometries of black volcanic sands
Huge, impossibly regular shapes
Of rutted charcoal rocks hover above us
As if waiting
We do not live, we are lived
Pessimism, the last refuge of hope
From a blurred horizon, quiet black basalt pools
Bore into the rocks and our own patiently withering bones
Slumbering swells of a salt-borne amnesia
Course through our fibrous limbs
Scorched, wandering
Brine secretes from every pore
The luminous point where logic becomes contemplation
Lost in thought, dreamless sleep, adrift in deep space
A black glow in the deepest sleepwalking seas
We do not live, we are lived
Pessimism, the last refuge of hope
Around you this night, a thousand million firefly anatomies
Breathe in and out in their slow burning, liturgical glow
Impersonal sadness, to become overgrown, like a ruin
We do not live, we are lived
Pessimism, the last refuge of hope
We do not live, we are lived
Pessimism, the last refuge of hope
We do not live, we are lived
Cosmic pessimism, the last refuge of hope
