Night falls fast, now. It fills in the crevice between the tactics we've practiced and the things that we actually believed. But, howling and snapping like wind through an abandoned shaft, you push back at the black stain 'til its inky membrane contracts. You hold me closer. You inspect me for the smallest flaws. A crowd queues at your feet; they hold their applause. The arc of a light. You can't see where it begins, but the ending's implied. You trace its inverted grin to where it subsides. You hold in your shaking hands some small demands. One by one, they'll be denied. The arc of a light. Prelapsarian variants on my own past struggle to supplant the last vestiges of memory I have. But my fusion with the beautiful things of the world is cut short by this daily struggle to determine who's forsaken me more, as you hold me closer, to deflect curses they've hurled at you. But that same closeness provides such a miserable view. Chorus. So: hold me closer, push me up to the glow of your dying fire, and I'll kick furiously to help it expire. Chorus.