The angels are ripping our
bodies apart, they're butchering corpses.
Look, we can't conceal that our flesh is dying.
Insects multiply in our blood.
And if this isn't enough, we can't
talk about it.
Hands are shaky. We are afraid of
breaking down, becoming weak, and being
killed by pity.
Silence is better.
A slight wind touches us.
We can nourish ourselves with this.
There's no shame in saying nothing.
Silence is life -- talk is only a wound.
No barricade here, just waiting for another part.
A different day which will happen when
we don't exist --
Please remember us tenderly . . .
Knock your head against a wall and
resurrect us . . .
Back to Blackbox