I lay in the mist of August night my mind cornered in the place without right The Black House with the third floor stairs The cold darkness of the blue flame tears In the closed Library, where knowledge is not true And the thing outside the doors wanting me through you Mister Warp reaches into the world through the stone manipulating again, until the just are thrown the man in bronze and the parasite croon The doors on the third floor will open soon
Words will never truly conceive let alone express the form of that thing. The places, the feelings, the expanding, never ending revolution of their returning. In the dark apartment's pool reflections, in the glass maze shifting beneath the mists. Peering down the elevator into the waters that never move.
Words will never truly conceive let alone express the form of that thing. The places, the feelings,
