9

My broken teeth gnashing at my own back in the dark. What kind of days are these the end of? Gold and glory. Pestilence and plague. Inside each hour they feel the same. Colors have different names and songs have different tunes, but we all see and we all sing. The well shod and the down trod. Hearts race with the joy of love. Tears salt the cheeks of lovers who've loved and lost. Every one of them sleeps, in every age and every city. Every one of them dreams. Every man chasing only himself in the night.