It’s true that we had problems… with **censored** we were singing, In front of the station was “out,” the street was out too. Perhaps a velvet stage, a venue with chandeliers… But instead, our voices echoed in the cold subway air. “Why not just do it virtually?” they said with a laugh, “If you don’t have a body, you don’t grow tired.” But we crave the grind of breath, the rattle of bone, A phantom orchestra in a world not our own. When will our music be recognized… as music? After we are dust, after silence has spread? Or will these strange debates dissolve into smoke, Once we’re forgotten, once the dentures are dead? Beyond life and death, beyond good and evil, We grind our teeth against the veil of the stars. Super-transcendent songs— absurd, eternal— Turn the universe itself… into our graveyard bar. Oooh... So raise your glass to the bite and the jest, The clatter of teeth that never found rest. We’ll haunt your stage, your ballroom, your cave… Until the cosmos itself… becomes our grave.
