With my ears to the clouds, I hear no cries, And thus I know I must be doing right. But surely there is no one on earth who does good and never sins, But with my ears to the earth, I hear the earth tell me that there is no sin at all. There is no sin at all. My ears to the clouds hear the same: nothing, nothing at all. This war is with phantoms and spectres, Of which I know nothing. This war is with phantoms and spectres, Of which I know nothing. What do I have now, If a captive audience? What is the nature of my power? I am become The Messenger, And so The Messenger I must be. If I not the Architect, or the Prophet, I will be the carrier, the node of their transmission. The Communicator, the Proselytiser. And this duty will be as sacred as theirs. I am become The Messenger. And I will be honest for them, For to be an honest thing for them Would be the highest thing I could be. It would be the highest thing I could be.

Having decided that change will come, Or at least could come, The question became when? At which point would the things holding it to this state, this person, relinquish their grasp, Release it into a cave in which it could and crawl, moulting its skin, shaking off old scales and spitting out old teeth, from the mouth of a stone cocoon as a new creature? And then what is it? Is it the creature, newly on all fours, or the pile of discarded skin, scale, and tooth abandoned in the dark? And the other ends of the ropes around its neck, where would they be? In the fists of those across from it? Or instead dangling beneath it, catching its feet as it runs and tangling in with moss and root beneath it? And upon leaving cave, it should be foreign to all former familiars, Freakish, frantic, frenetic in movement and mutated beyond memory Safe, Alone, at last, in animal anonymity. And so now newborn chameleon crawls across moonlit plain under cloudless sky, and the air is brisk upon its scales, and the dew from the grass slides coolly along its tail. But should this chameleon come across pond or puddle or pool, Should it crane head down to water to drink, Should it glance its own eyes, Should it see in its gaze a shimmer of its old self, Should it experience recognition, memory, What then of those knowing vile eyes that pull from its stomach the visions of past lives? Must they not also go? No, can they be masked? So skin mutates, mottles, moults again, And then it returns to water, but still, In those eyes that know, It sees. And so now, newly blind chameleon crawls through thicket and dense dirty forest and clambors over moss and root and collides with trunk and branch, Invisible now to it as it is to itself.

What morality do you claim With that gun in your hand? And what of the one in yours? And what of the one in yours? The things that, In my waking life, I recognise as falsehoods, Scare me more than anything, Because I believe them in my dreams. The things that, In my waking life, I recognise as falsehoods, Scare me more than anything, Because I believe them in my dreams. Whose thoughts are these that I find here? Whose thoughts are these that I... Whose thoughts are these that I find here? Whose thoughts are these that I... And what morality do you claim, With that gun in your hand? And what of the one in yours? And what of the one in yours? And what of the one in yours? And what of the one in yours? Whose thoughts are these that I find here? Whose thoughts are these that I... Whose thoughts are these that I find here? Whose thoughts are these that I... It seeks to avoid becoming merely sympathetic and platitudinous, while remaining humble about the true scope of its power. And I'm not killing myself, I was always going to kill myself I'm already dead. This was always going to be, so it is already. And I'm not gonna fight about it And we’re not gonna talk about it And I'm not gonna fight about it And we’re not gonna talk about it I'm going outside I'm not gonna fight I'm going outside I'm going outside

A thought appears in front of me, And I step back from it. But an idea strikes, And it is found upstairs in the closet, So it goes there to find it and breathes deeply, And there it is found a week later, Crouching with its weight pressed against the door in the small triangle of light from the hall, A small mouse with damp cheeks, Squeaking softly about apologies. And it says: In here, There is something Far more complex, Far simpler than words. In here, There is something far, far more distant Than eyes or lips. I am laughing because you make me happy, It says. I am laughing because I know that I what I see in your eyes is a love deeper than either of us understands. And about that it is right. Because whatever it was in the eyes that communicated that, I surely did not understand. I surely did not intend. But anyway, It is found in the closet upstairs, Where it weeps and whines And I guess I'll put it this way: I used to think that everybody just wants to survive, That we are all just trying to live, but now, In the light from the hall, In this pathetic creature, I see nothing, Nothing at all

His leg itches late at night and he wonders what possesses it to do so. There's no sleep at night when you feel like this, he cries within himself. No sleep when you think like this. No sleep when you know what's out there, and that what's out there might sometime soon be in here. He is restless and he begins to shake, his body quivering in time with his thoughts. Reaching for a glass of water by his bed, he pauses, his eyes catching a pair of something else glinting in the corner. His stomach turns and he stares transfixed as the mirage dissolves back into shadow. His fear yields momentarily to action, And he scrambles to turn on the light, But finds himself, With a strange mix of disappointment and relief, alone. The body next to him is nothing. The body next to him is nothing. The body next to him, some kind of breathing corpse, illuminated now by the lamp on his bedside, is damp with sweat. The bedsheets cling to it like wet leaves to a rotting tree. The air from the open window smells faintly of petrichor and compost, Earthly aromas signalling the ends of things. A voice from somewhere deep within him whispers something unintelligible, and his mind recoils. Could he make out a warning? Something about sleep? The voice rises again, a continuous muttering in tongues not like his own coming from somewhere inside of him. He whimpers to the room in response, his eyes widening and narrowing. A shadow in the corner shifts along the wall and he jumps and turns, but once again there is nothing nothing but himself. Dark patterns on the wall just beyond his vision begin to form, And like a dog chasing its tail he spins around to follow them, but always his eyes meet the walls. Nothing there. His mouth tastes like something dying. The body next to him is nothing, But it mumbles in its sleep.

Awakens he to the smell of smoke, Dashes he to the window Remembers he old threats once spoke, Climb flames up to the window Clambor and shout the people below, Their voices licking the window. Floor groans and walls bellow, Suddenly cracks, the window. Watches he through shards of glass, One calling up to the window, "Who's inside?" the small voice asks, Voice muted through the window. Alone is he, "None but me", Bellows he from the window. "What happens now?" He cannot see Through the smoke filling the window. Hearing nothing, the voice moves on, Shouting to another window, "Who's inside?" echoing on Shouting to another window. Eyes to street, as smoke clears, Revealing the scene through the window, Masses moving through chokes and cheers, A river flows past the window Remembers he the old town, Sunlight through the window, And not one body standing around To block sunlight through the window The memory gone, he gazes upon The beasts beyond his window, Collectively now, crawling now, Towards and past his window. A hand to his chest, and one to the sill, Eyes widening 'fore the window, Those memories gone, never will They again cross his window Now instead a crowd he sees, Boiling near his window, What must be done before they seize What's left beyond his window. "Treacherous machinations," He shouts in horror from the window, "Utopian hallucinations" He shouts in horror from the window But none look up, none care to make A memory of that window, Where an old man cries and shakes On the night they burn the windows Smashes he a fist through glass Opens his skin with the window, Extends he an arm past glass, Points finger through the window And with blood and sweat dripping from his hands, he opens his chest, and pulls smoke into his lungs. And then releasing, clouds billowing up around his face and embers reflecting in his eyes, he shouts, I will clean the mess you make. I will remove you. I will make these streets so clean the rats will go hungry. I will scrub these gutters of filth until the roaches eat each other. But damp with sweat and saliva, his face turns from the window. The room spins and flickers with an orange glow. His skin and lungs grey with ash, he collapses in a heap, A small pile of a man lit by the neon flames from the window, The last of his strength crying out over the street. The warmth of the floor on his cheek warns him of a fire below. He exhales a grey cloud and his nose is filled with the smell of burning leather, Furniture in the room beneath him. In the corner, a photo of a handshake melts and curls. The floor creaks and splits, opening enough for an arm to fall through, Before peeling away for the rest, A crevice for this decrepit thing to die in. And falls he through a hole in his own world, Tumbling into the heat of burning upholstery and exploding televisions.

Sitting with this one man, And he says to me, That he understands, It’s hard to admit That the world around you, The one that spins, Is the sane one. It’s the sane one. And I go home to Jessie, And I ask her, Jessie, is it true? Are we alone out here, You and I and the lizards? And Jessie, Jessie says to me, How could we ever be alone When we've got each other? Jessie smiles at me and takes my hand, And we turn to face the horizon where the mountains obscure that flat line that you can see from everywhere else. The shadows crawl across the desert, But I'm not scared because I know, I know, That my girl and I will shortly save the world. Jessie holds the sacrificial instrument. And she draws blood from her hand, And a pentagram in the sand. And we pray for a quick end to our lives. And Jessie says, Are you ready? Are you ready to die for your cause, For the message? A thrust of the blade, And Jessie says, This is how we die. I can hear the crowds from the town, Getting closer. Jessie stirs in her sleep, And she wakes with sweat on her brow. And I say, Honey, where will we go now? And Jessie laughs through the tears on her cheeks. And she says, Babe, don't you already know? She takes my hand. The sky is black, and filled with smoke. And Jessie says, Are you ready to go? This is how we die.

...a life spent in pursuit of the virtuous end will be a more rewarding life, and a more meaningful life than one that acknowedges reality.