It could all absolutely twister and fade. It might not be. We shall not be, (Oh sweet Desdemona)... Speak to me of strangers. Ever so slightly. Speak to me ever so slightly. Above us only the sky, painfuly blue, as in my dreams it has been. For days and not forsaken. Such is my will. My words are vaguely uttered from uynsavory territoires. Unspeakable wastelands.