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Shadows and targets surround me, as darkness engulfs. With dwindling light, you bid your final farewell. Wolves lurk in the shadows, as I quietly utter a plea for survival. No cries escape my lips.

Glasses. No expression. At my head, I wanna drown my sorrow. No tomorrow. I find it kinda funny.

I am very tired of saying goodbye. When I look inside, I see a lot of things. Let's take a look.

I work long hours for low pay, sacrificing my soul and wasting my life. I drown my troubles away, feeling trapped in this sad reality. It's a shame how the world has become for people like us. I wish I could wake up and escape this truth, but it's real. Living in a new world with an old soul, where the rich only know the rich.

I feel scared when I see the expression in your eyes. I want to say goodbye, but sometimes I want to fight. I need you now and I need you even more if you hold on.

I love everything, even when fire engulfs my room. The brightness of my world makes it difficult to breathe, but I'm okay with that.

They sent their wolves to track me down and spread my name through the dirty side of town, wanting me silent and gone. The anchor holds till the break of dawn. I’ve been hunted before and know the chase; every step they take is a permanent disgrace. They can’t corner the truth or cage the real. The anchor is the wound they’ll never heal, so let them keep searching and sniffing around as the blade and the anchor stand on solid ground. The hounds are closing in, but the blade is sharper than it’s ever been. They think they can trap me in a corner of lies, but I’ve been hunting since the day I opened my eyes. The pursuers don’t know the game. The blade doesn’t fear the sound of a wrong name. “You don’t know the thrill”—I’ll be in the prey ready to kill. To the end, I’ll be the thing they chase, but they’ll never catch the blade and will never see it. She’s in the shadows while I’m the open air. Let them come—I’ll hold them there as the blade moves silent through the back of the line, cutting down the hunters one at a time. They don’t realize that with the trap they set, the hunter became the hunter of permanent debt. We turn the pursuit into their own defeat; the blade and pursuit become the hunters we beat. The blade and anchor make the hunters pay as I circle around together with the deadliest thing they found, and the hunt is done. The blade and anchor already won. Send the word, send the whole crew—we’re the hunter that the hunters never knew. We are not the prey. The blade and anchor make the hunters pay; I hold the line. With the truth that liars can’t touch, they can’t catch us. To the end with a permanent scar, the hunted are the hunters we already are. Already hunted but never caught—the blade and the anchor stand forever.

I feel surrounded and need help, but she is free to leave. No one else is coming, I'm just walking my dog.

I feel manic, like a flood overwhelming everything. I'm not here to make friends; I'm here to reveal how the world ends. The past is returning to crash down, creating tidal waves of devastation. This energy traps you in fear, making you feel like a ghost in your own memories. I'm the light in the darkness, carrying the weight of existence, marked by struggles. You may feel trapped, but remember me; I'm part of you, like smoke. As you exhale, the pressure builds. You’ve failed to see the truth, and now it’s time to confront it.

Blackout sky, cold world. Through dark nights, emotions drown. Hit me when I'm down, I rise up with fire. Spirits suck, fuck them up. Come up, put enemies to dust. Come up, heal the rug. Drowsing tribulations, no one to trust. Watch me buzz, watch me bust.

I feel manic, like a flood overwhelming everything. I'm not here to make friends; I'm here to reveal how the world ends. The past is returning to confront you, crashing down like tidal waves, trapping you in fear. I'm the light in the darkness, an eternal spark amidst devastation. Energy surrounds you, reminding you of lost connections. Remember me as I linger like smoke, exhaling faster. You failed me, caught in a cycle of pain and fear, marked by struggles. The weight of memories and the clash of realities weigh heavily, but I remain a flicker of hope in the chaos.

I reflect on my life as I walk through the valley of death.

I hear the train of governors ruling around the bed. I see the bloodshed, but I don't know where.

I see everything, but I feel empty. I don't want to die here. There has to be more. Translation (if needed): I see everything, but I feel empty. I don't want to die here. There has to be more.

I had to leave, feeling trapped in chaos. There's pain contained within the system, and I’m just a part of it, trying to navigate through it all. My emotions are evident; I’m disgusted by humanity and haunted by trauma that I can’t forget. It’s a system shock that lingers in my memory. I feel overwhelmed, drowning in emotions, struggling against the tide. I search for light but find darkness instead, trying to rise above it all. My spirit feels detached, and I wake up in fear, realizing I’m alone. I wish things were different, but I continue to fight through the blaze of my experiences.

We're in a tough situation and need to take action. We can't just wait around; nothing will change if we do. It feels like we're in a losing battle, and for every one of us, there are ten of them. Our efforts seem to be making things worse instead of better.

Speaker 0: You said no to war, and I heard you. I thought, what a blessing you are. May your heart stay pure and always protected. May your actions and morals stay connected, because our hearts have been tainted like black tea spilled on a Persian rug leaving a stain. We used to think the same. We wanted to play a good hand at this game, but the moment we heard our mothers wailing, we folded. There's no justice in this life. Our faith has eroded. They keep killing our children in the name of God. We watch Seppar's father searching for his son amongst countless body bags filled with women and children and innocent men. We also never considered war an option before then, before we witnessed our mothers burn in grieving flames. It wasn't required to jump over fire when New Year's came. Every stride they took, they were burning like a furnace. Every step turned to ash where their hearts used to beat. Their pain turned soft souls into something concrete. May you never know the pain of a whole entire nation begging to be saved by foreign invasion. They say, I don't understand. Why would you agree to war? What a blessing it is that you don't understand my love. I hope you never know the pain of people begging to be bombed where your death is so close, but it feels like hope. Maybe in another life, every country will rush to save us instead of fighting over whether Trump has the right to invade us. They'll fight over who gets the honor of being our savior. They'll argue over credit for our liberation and for once we'll have a choice and who our leader gets to be, not imposed but chosen will finally be free. It's good you don't believe in more. What beautiful way of thinking. What a blessing it is to not know the feeling of clinging to the first life raft that comes in your direction, not caring for a second about their intention, not pausing for reflection, just to fight against death. My love, I'm glad you still believe there's a wrong and a right, but I've seen a place where that line disappears, where survival speaks louder than morals and fears, what a blessing to breathe and still have a voice, to question the hand and still have a choice. But when your lungs start to fail and you're drowning with no air, you don't care who it is, you just hope that they're there. You clutch at the life raft, no time left away, whose hands pulling you up or what price you will pay, head barely above water, grief flooding your sight. You don't choose your savior. You choose to survive.

Speaker 0 describes being left with the door “cracked,” carrying “a little light, a little hope, a little maybe I’ll be back,” while rehearsing conversations that never come to closure because their hand won’t turn the knob when alone at night. They say the person knew exactly what they were doing—“Enough hope to hold me, not enough to stay”—and blame the “halfway” fracture for refusing to heal. Speaker 0 says they learned how to live through absence: “No one taught me how to shave. I learned from a magazine.” “No one taught me how to love. I learned from a broken scene.” “No one taught me how to cry. I learned from holding it in.” “No one taught me how to lose.” They describe their parents as a ghost with a mailbox address and a cloud in a summer of stress, raising them on silence and television. Now at 40, they still feel numb and angry at being a boy “never employed…to be parented.” They repeat that no one taught them how to be a man, and claim they learned to self-educate: love as “just a rental agreement,” trust as “just a form of bereavement.” Each lesson becomes a wound, each wound a class, each class a room with no windows. They portray themselves as both teacher and student enrolled in “the school of the abandoned.” Speaker 0 shifts to seeing someone yesterday—still around but not truly present—holding a funeral for the living. They describe “no casket, no flowers, just the unforgiving,” and say addiction took the body while something else took the soul. The person is “a walking outline,” grieved “a 100 times,” returning with a hollow-eyed presence. Speaker 1 says they don’t know which is worse: hope or despair of seeing them alive but “knowing you’re not really there.” Speaker 0 vows to bury their memory beneath the earth, mourn who the person was “before the curse,” and wait if they “find [their] way back from the dead.” They liken their love to a lifeline in a storm, while holding the belief that the person is the only thing “actually real.” They describe grief as a crowded cemetery with limited shelf space for urns, memories, and flowers that die, repeating that there’s “not enough grace” and “not enough dirt to cover the cost.” They outlive a brother and pride, and say every funeral taught them a different way to continue while the ground feels too full and they remain “still here.” Speaker 0 then turns inward: running, hiding, confessing, but being haunted by a “wolf” and by ghosts built inside the chest. They try to starve the rage, shut the cage, pray it away, medicate it, but it feeds on silence and grows in stillness. They wonder if being without it would mean not knowing who they are or where they belong. They describe a mental noise—static in the marrow, speakers buried in bones—bleeding static, stepping over it since the day someone left. They return to the image of a crack in the floorboards: it reminds them of the fracture left behind and the way the other person said “I love you” like a temporary place rather than a home. They consider filling it with putty and sanding it flat, but fear that repairing the floor would erase proof that the other person was ever there and that the brokenness might keep the memory intact. They say they’ve been a backup plan, second choice, consolation prize—never the reason someone stayed or fought. They express a desire to be chosen, held, and treated as someone’s reason, strength, and “I’m not leaving,” but they remain “in the almost and never quite desired.” Speaker 0 ends with numb exhaustion: waking, breathing, repeating existence without passion or purpose—fine as a word for dying on the inside. Days blur like rain on a windowpane, nights blur like tears, and they say they are not alive, not dead, but stuck “in the in between,” floating in the space while a frequency in their skull never turns off. They describe every mistake on loop and every failure in stereo, as static becomes the only staying voice and chaos fills the silence.

I am unsure of what to do. I am torn between staying and being lonely, or leaving and feeling isolated. Oh no, it's happening. It's happening. They never got to experience Venice.

Demons are constantly active, seducing and manipulating us. Despite being together, we each face these challenges alone. The only hope is that when we overcome these struggles, we find familiar faces waiting for us on the other side.

The speaker presents a world of deliberate isolation and entanglement with danger, where loyalty is unreliable and shelter is a mirage. Bloodlines go silent when the wolves come to feed, and promises of safety turn into betrayal: shelter promised, then the sea planted. The inner circle dissolves like smoke when badges flash and pressure rises, signaling a landscape where trusted faces offer drinks with a grin while their pockets hide secrets and knives. Suit-and-tie riders arrive at the gate at night, presenting papers for protection while they measure one’s fight, illustrating a coercive system that claims guardianship yet weighs every move. There is no circle to lean on, no place to claim as own, and every outstretched hand seems to call out the speaker’s name for taking or breaking, for branding or chaining. The speaker asserts that they learned long ago that the only safe lane is to ride alone, because they were born alone and will dine alone, and will die alone. The refrain echoes: Alone Ranger, so I ride alone; they don’t even know what side I’m on. Corner boys turn to cocaine when the heat arrives, exchanging quiet knobs for a seat by the fire, signaling a descent into a life where crime and survival intertwine under pressure. New shadows enter the town, smiling with hooded intent, offering alliances while rewriting the rules. Highriders in offices deal from the dark, selling pieces of freedom with a stamped mark, implying corruption at powerful levels that market liberty while controlling its terms. Every new stranger bears a map or a line pointing to the place where you die, suggesting that danger is ubiquitous and navigation itself is lethal. The speakers recount sermons from high pulpits about standing as one, even as they sharpen fences and load guns, a stark juxtaposition between rhetoric of unity and the reality of threat and segmentation. They have watched too many backs vanish into the dust and too many bloodholes crumble to rust, a cumulative history of loss and disintegration. Thus, the speaker travels ghost trails where the only law is born of silent whispers—an unspoken code that nobody believes. The overall arc emphasizes solitary endurance in a world of betrayal, power, and concealed violence, where the true loyalties are invisible and the path is walked alone.

End of day, when we pray and the sky turns gray, time slips away. Watch your life clock fade. Let's clarify things. Abocalyptic bees have you running, as the future escapes. As I fly by, the world ends. Do you feel my vibe? I bend time and space through a tiny lens as we ascend into dreams. To the last beach in the book of life, we meet ourselves and leave the final sounds in the dark. Say goodbye to your soul.

To see if I still feel, I focus on the pain because it's the only thing that feels real. The needle tears the hole, bringing that old familiar sting. I try to kill it all, but I remember everything.

I can't escape, they keep pulling me back in.

It feels like digging my own grave, but worse. It's as if I'm not only digging but also preparing to stab myself and fall into it.