The rain pours down whilst strolling through these streets of blame… off in the distance a fire blazes, this unrequieted flame. Thoughts race forth, desire once again without a name. I burn, burn, burn on through to the very apex of this same – this same old excuse, this same naught of a being. This same old notion, of no recompense, of no meaning. Humanity without conscience, humanity without a reason – so it burns in the fire, like the traitor after his treason. So on then they bleed, and it flows out of the seams – wandering about this sacred night, without want or need – no need of ration, no need to please… I have no need for such madness, only to bring Fate down to her knees. If she would ever find the cure, the antidote for her twisted disease – that tangled web of lies, her twisted disguise – silence falls on those trees. No more sounds in this dead of night, only the sighs of the branches, gently slumping their leaves. And so this constant sting, how it sways and bobs and weaves… along into the darkness, along that path of final betrayal. The hammer drops down one final time – the coffin sees its final nail. So then – off he goes, off the edge, further to the side, toward the ledge, where there will be nowhere left to hide. On and on into this dead of night he bleeds his trail – the rustling of the forest, the crackling embers, the virgin’s wail. On and on to the next one – she will require thought. No more cry. No pale goodbye. Just that spark, just that spot.
Walking the Ledge
Portishead - Theme From "To Kill A Dead Man"