So much pushing and shoving around digging and punding the ground
it has all taken me from a run-down reality into the middle of a town where I've come to flee.
And in there I've been casted as deranged;
For being unable to pause the wailing of a spirit who warns against the flood.
Now my hands they feel so light; and my fingers somehow flick the air without contrite;
Who knows, maybe all this trouble has earned me a spot as one of the angels that governs the week;
and readies the earth
and readies the earth for the second coming
of the meek.