What little time we're given is bleeding through a gaping wound in our neck. Rivers paint the dirty floor. You can't put it back in. Its already dried. Why do you think the floor's dirty?
You never had a chance. No one has a chance. There's never a chance. Not in hell. Not in heaven. The floor is so dirty. I don't wanna walk on it. I don't want.
We drop down limp. Life in our veins is gone. Our eyes are open and our minds are silent. Birds fly across the empty stretch of stars between our world and theirs.
There wasn't a point. Laying against the dirty ground. The filthy ground. We filthy beasts made it this way.
We should have given up before we started. The birds pluck out our eyes. Our bodies are stiff. Then they aren't. Then they're bloated. Then they're bones. Then they're gone. The floor's still there. Its dirtier than it was before.
What a waste we are to have made the ground so disgusting.