Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end.

My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.

It seems unpleasantly refinedTo put things off till someone knows.

Seven types of ambiguity.

The "News," the conferences that leer,the creeping fog, the civil traps.These are what force you into fear.

It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.The more things happen to you the more you can'tTell or remember even what they were.