the lonely northern one in the business of mailing death.
Thereís an argument somewhere, the story unravels.
Thereís a cat who mewls themes from Beethoven.
The dreams every morning in strange languages,
the perusal of deep books no one has written,
There is something about your voice I cannot hear,
I cannot hear your words. 
|1||Ten years ago the machines failed us as no one was in charge.|
|2||The looming subsumes us from war to peace.|
|3||You remember the story (itís not yet over)|
|4||The voice of the wind,|
|5||Thereís an old swing set rusting in the woods.|
|6||Someone blew up the mountain|
|7||The old order is turned asunder|
|8||A bomb left a hole gaping at the street corner|
|9||The philosopher has returned to his homeland|
|10||You enter the room and the day is still sunny|
|12||What changes is the will to change|
|13||One song after another, not to impress,|
|14||If youíre driving long enough|
|15||This age of ours always hangs on|