So many call here
On their way down below
And I'll be here burning
Till the end of time

Thoughts of the falling
Burn from the ceiling to wall
And I'll be here waiting
Till the end of time

And nothing here is safe, and nothing here is sacred, and the thing you care for most will crawl away wounded as you tell it you love it, into the dark recesses and hollowed-out corners of nothing. And the last touch is always the hardest, and the last touch is always the same, and the last look is the one that'll kill you, and the last touch is the one that'll drive you insane.

And as the night fell, and the gutters swelled with the roar of the pissing city and the falling, balling, and crawling below, he sat shaking uncontrollably by the window looking over the pestilent street. And he sat, and he prayed, and he prayed, and he sat, and he prayed to St. Augustus, St Brigid, Padre Pio, patron saint of all sinners, patron saint of all fools, patron saint of every fucking dying, crawling thing beneath him, shouting out the names of the dead and forgotten. And he cried out for Christ's sake help me! For Christ's sake get me out of here! God of all sick things get me the fuck out of here! Release me!