The sailing sorrows make amends with carefully thundered pulses built for peace, which thrive amid the wreckage that will cease to be. Each limb and joint and organ lends their talent to the task at hand, ascends the mounting silence and prompts full release of pictures... save those which only ease our role as nocturne-conduit. My friends-- we live this night in question, through the stars and thrashing motions of a red communion. Inhaling colors needed for such scars. Yet banishing those hues which taint the illusion. And if they brand us wayward dreamers, idealists, avatars. We've made them listen. All have paid attention.