Mother, I Want To See

Fantasy Is Silver And Scarlet, Indigo And Azure, Obsidian Veined With Gold And Lapis Lazuli. Reality Is Plywood And Plastic, Done Up In Mud Brown And Olive Drab. Fantasy Tastes Of Habaneros And Honey, Cinnamon And Cloves, Rare Red Meat And Wines As Sweet As Summer. Reality Is Beans And Tofu, And Ashes At The End.

But The Real Enemy Is The Cold. It Steals Up On You Quieter Than Will, And At First You Shiver And Your Teeth Chatter And You Stamp Your Feet And Dream Of Mulled Wine And Nice Hot Fires. It Burns, It Does. Nothing Burns Like The Cold. But Only For A While. Then It Gets Inside You And Starts To Fill You Up, And After A While You Don't Have The Strength To Fight It. It's Easier Just To Sit Down Ot Go To Sleep. They Say You Don't Feel Any Pain Toward The End. First You Go Weak And Drowsy, And Everything Starts To Fade, And Then It's Like Sinking Into A Sea Of Warm Milk. Peaceful, Like.

A Bruise Is A Lesson... And Each Lesson Makes Us Better.

Light Our Fire And Protect Us From The Dark, Blah Blah, Light Our Way And Keep Us Toasty Warm, The Night Is Dark And Full Of Terrors, Save Us From The Scary Things, And Blah Blah Blah Some More.

Black Moleskin Gloves Covered His Hands; The Right Because It Was Burned, The Left Because A Man Felt Half A Fool Wearing Only One Glove.