Текст: Young Livers. A Shortness Of Breath.

Innate submission, supplied for attraction, as lines are to form.
Only to bury and dilute this all.
And as it thickens by the moment until the crest in lust, control until arrest.
Into remission, some heart of this passion,
Left here to linger teeming in masses and hoards of white washed notes
Searing perception, disregard for discretion.
We are the fodder, disposed, in our youth we are getting old.
Derived from us, in it we all drown.

Without warning it will wake you from your deepest of sleep,
Where you?ll be awakened from these decade long nightmares face to face
With the main objectives that were once ulterior motives.
There?s an absence of breathing room whilst waking up screaming through
The shortness of breath.