Cold air, creeping up my spine Swim fast from the start to the side there Long hair, tickling down my neck Swing slow from the pillar to limbs I'm here, moving through the crowd Carried over the floor like I'm elsewhere So soft like a spectre of clouds From the sky to the ground I'll lose my grip With chalk hands We'll move through it With no plans I'll lose my grip And I'll understand We'll move through it And I'll feel fine I can't see where the sea meets the sky and Draw the horizon there I can't see where the trees meet their Final branch (where leaves turn to air) I can't see the end see the end I can't see the end see the end

I'm not where I wanted to be In these cold blooms I'm struggling to see the fading sun Over the shoreline And I know one day I'll be there And I know I'll be there I see Through the fading light The train is coming to take me away I breathe In the cold of the night Slipping deeper in darkness You were never there Stark breeze Feeling cold to the bone But next time Next time I'll bask in the summer sun I bask in the summer sun These words are like old dried up petals, flowers devoid of life, lacking the water and sustenance they onc̴e̷ ̵h̵a̷d̴.̵ ̸T̸h̴e̴ ̶b̸r̷i̸g̵h̷t̷ ̶c̴o̸l̷o̷u̵r̷s̷ ̶t̴h̵a̵t̷ ̷o̷n̴c̶e̵ ̵b̵r̸o̴u̶g̵h̸t̶ ̷l̸i̵f̵e̶ ̵h̷a̶v̴e̶ ̸f̵a̷d̶e̵d̴ ̸t̵o̸ ̸g̶r̸e̴y̵s̶ ̶a̸n̷d̵ ̴b̶r̸o̶w̷n̸s̷,̷ ̴g̷r̵e̵e̵n̴ ̶s̸t̶a̸l̶k̴s̶ ̴w̷i̶z̵e̴n̴i̸n̸g̸ ̷a̶s̶ ̷y̷e̶l̵l̷o̷w̸ ̸p̶o̴l̵l̶e̸n̷ ̴c̸l̷u̸m̶p̵s̸ ̵a̴n̵d̸ ̶l̶o̸s̷e̴s̸ ̷p̶i̸g̵m̴̩̿é̴̖n̷̆ͅt̶̬̑.̸̼͝ ̴̡̇I̴͈͊t̷̝͒ ̶̱̀c̴̙̒l̶͚͂o̵̭̍g̸͔̕s̸̗͠,̷̤̇ ̴̢̒ḅ̵̑l̴͈̀o̸̡͗c̴̤̑k̵̥͒s̸̱̋,̴̬̊ ̶̛͇b̴́͜ŕ̷͎ȋ̵͓c̷͇͑k̸̺͋s̸̭̈́ ̵̠̇u̴̟̍ṗ̶̭ ̶̼̊t̴̳̐ĥ̵̫ę̵͛ ̵̨̚p̸̣͒a̸̝̒t̶͙͗h̴̗̅w̴̘̋a̴̟̾ỳ̵̖s̶̩͛ ̷̮̅ỉ̴̭ņ̴́ ̷̗̏m̵̰̍y̶̘̒ ̸͈͘m̷̘̾i̷̥̾n̸̪̎d̶̼̾,̸̲̔ ̵̣͝I̴̔͜ ̷̣͊c̸͙̉a̵̜̔n̷̫̽'̴͓̈́t̴̼̎ ̷̂͜s̸̺̏ẹ̷̋ẹ̸͐,̵͖̽ ̵̗͠t̶͉͝h̶̳̑ì̶͎n̶͔͛k̶͇̿ ̷̘̂s̶̲͋t̶̘͗r̴̜̈a̴̛̬ī̷̦g̸̗̏h̷͙͠t̸̯͒,̷̱͋ ̶̗͝o̵̫̍l̷̰͝d̴͚̄ ̴̮̈́p̴̧̅i̴̺̿c̵̯̉ẗ̶̻́u̵̡̇r̷͕̾é̴̪s̴̠̏ ̷͈́r̴̪̉ě̸̜p̷̠̄l̴̟̇à̵̠c̶̬̐e̶̯͂ ̶̼͝n̴̡̅e̸̛͕w̶̡̑ ̴̙̚ö̷̼́n̵̪̄e̵̙̍s̸̙͘ ̶̣͒l̵̺̕i̷͎͊k̶͚̒ë̷̤́ ̶̙́ḟ̶͓l̸̤̊a̴̘͊s̵͔̅ḧ̵̠́b̶̛̭a̸̻̒c̶͓͠k̵̘̎s̵̟͊ ̴͍͝b̵̗͌ȗ̴̙t̴̫͐ ̶̻͐I̶͓͘ ̶̩̆c̴͕̎ã̴̜ǹ̷̰'̷̲͝t̸̥͗ ̷̟͝l̶̞̎o̸̜͠o̶͉̿k̴̼̈́ ̶̜̒b̷͖̔a̶͉̋c̸̪̉ķ̴̀ ̷̫̾b̵͚͘ù̸̯t̷̜̊ ̸̜̀d̵̝̂i̵̼̇d̷̓͜ ̸͍̚I̶̭̊ ̸̫̈́ĕ̷̝v̴͉͌ȅ̵͔r̴͎͌ ̶͈̔s̶̘̆h̶̡̏ũ̸̦ț̴͛ ̶̜͐t̸̺̾h̸̹̉e̴͎͘ ̸͎̿ḋ̴͇ǫ̸͛ô̶̦r̶̩̒ ̷͉̚o̵̫͝r̴̛̥ ̴̠̓d̸̗͛i̷̻̔d̷̬̃ ̷̫͐I̴̳̊ ̷̢̆l̶͔̏ȇ̵ͅa̵͎͠v̷̜̚e̶͌ͅ ̷͔̓ǐ̸̺t̷̺͝ ̵̲̿ȍ̶̩p̸͔̀e̸̫̍n̷̖̈́ ̵̫̚â̸̧ ̴̻͋c̶̪̚r̸̳̂a̷͍͑̒c̵͈͌͠ḵ̵̀̉ ̶̧̌̓t̴̞̟͆̐o̸̭͘͝ ̷͙̋̀l̴̬͌ě̴͆ͅt̸̮͔́̈ ̸̝̈a̵̱͗͋l̷͉͕͒̾l̵̜̠̀ ̵̯̽̍͜t̴͇̓h̴͖̀é̷̺̲̀ ̷͊̓͜ͅr̴͖̖͑͗ȃ̵̧̤ḭ̸̡͛̆n̶̼͌͗ ̶̩̤̇͒s̸̙̀e̷̟̕e̵̪̎p̴̨̥͠ ̷̖̈t̴̜͐͋h̴͙͒͒r̸̤̟̆õ̶͕u̷͈̹̿̾g̸͎̤̑̒h̷̨̊̒ ̵̯̩̍̆s̵̫̟͊̃ǫ̸̹̂a̶̛̪̓k̸̳̯̀i̵̱̋̕n̴̬̈́͐g̴̩̠͌ ̵̰̀e̵̦̿̀v̵͕̊̃ē̸̻r̵̡̝͗͒ỳ̸̧̭͑t̵͚̊h̷͙͑̚i̶̮̐n̷̥͔̈́ĝ̷͉͠ ̴̦̌̀I̷̘̽̔'̴̨̫̽v̴̙̀e̵̠͎͒̈ ̷̮́t̵̙̑́͜r̷͖͎̽̕i̵͔͖͛͗e̸͖̅͝ḍ̶̬́ ̶̨͙͑͘t̶͉̩̄̅ȏ̵̞ ̴̖̓͠b̸̰͌ū̸̬̬i̸͙̓̚l̴͓̿̋d̸͎̪̾ ̸̝̰́̏s̸͍̬̈́͑ȋ̴̤͕͗n̸͈̻̈́c̵͎̩͛̿é̶̩ ̶̡̻̓̇Ĩ̵͈̾ ̶̨̱̃͝c̵̥̊r̴͔̚̚o̴͈̎s̷͍̀s̴̮̈ë̸͙̰d̸̹̳͂ ̸̖͆̂ŏ̶̺̦v̸̧͆̿͜é̸̡̖̘̝̚r̵̫̳̬̲̈́͌͝ ̷̹̏̍̔͝t̴̞͎̜̠̕h̶̟̞͗ą̷̙̕t̵͇́̈͠ ̴͍͉̀̌́ͅt̵̬͓̟̜̾͘h̷̛̥͂̋͝r̵̢̰̣͗̅e̵̡͔̥̤̊s̴̡͖̍̎͒h̸͈̝̯̝͌͂̃ǒ̸̝̊̚ļ̵̱̩̤̍̂d̴͔̥̮̥͐,̷̬̎̾͗ ̵͚̖̍̓̀t̶̟̿̚h̴͉͒̇̑̕i̵̬̼͌͌̿̽ś̶̰̖̓̔͒ ̶̥͚̮̥̋̔p̵̪̟̎̾i̸̳̩͝t̵̲̖̫͎́t̵̺͒e̷̟͇̅ṟ̴͚̼̓̿̊̚ ̵̮͋͒̓p̶̘̭̑̓̓ä̴̖̈ͅt̶̘̩̺̟̓̏̀t̶̢̡͍̐͊̿͂ͅë̶̪̼r̶̭̖̃̓ ̴̛͚̞̺̐͐͑ͅḓ̴̟͖̺̒̐͌r̸̛̲̭̓͂̌ͅi̴̞͖͑̌v̸̞͖̱̞͗̇͋͂i̷̘͒ń̵̛̻g̴̫͕͌̀ ̴̣̓̆f̸̗͍̋̌ͅo̶̠͗̔͒̚r̵͍̯͔̓̕l̸̛̳̀͊͝ȍ̶̰̱̼r̷̢͉̬̐͐͝n̶͂́͜͝ ̶͇͚͓̈́͋͐͝i̸͈͔͎̒͛͘n̷̙̭̂́t̷͕̘͎͆̃ỏ̶̺̦̃͘͝ ̴̺̠̯̄͛̄ṱ̴̔͆h̷̖͇̳̞͋̍̎e̶͓̺̔ ̴̳̐̐̚s̶̠͙̩̊̔͝ͅk̶͓͇̆͆ư̴̙͍͛͒l̷͚͙͕̆̀̃̚l̶̡̮̹̅ ̴̗͖͗́͜ͅȏ̷̝̄ḟ̸̹̖͉̞̐ ̴̺́͛̀̅t̷̩́ẖ̷̟̺͇̚i̷̢̓̕͝s̷̼̈͝ ̸̯̝͝ë̷͕́ṁ̷̼͓͒̕p̷̝̗͙̼̍t̶̡̖͓̦̾ý̶̳͛ ̸̠̪̲͂̓̈́h̷̢͓̣́̈́̅͘ë̷̘̦̦́͆͊͆ǎ̷̧͓̘d̴̖̈́̓͜ͅ ̴̪̟͆͂̓ am I alive or am I dead