There's a ghost that grows inside of us, damaged in the making
And there's a hunt sprung from necessity, elliptical and drowned
Where the moving quiet of our insomnia offers up each thought
There's a luminous field of grey inertia, and obsidian dreams burned all the way down

Arabesque ink wandering, winds itself around our ovate dreams
We seem to speak only in the imprecise geometries of black volcanic sands
Huge, impossibly regular shapes of rutted charcoal rocks hover above us
As if waiting

We do not live, we are lived
Pessimism, the last refuge of hope

From a blurred horizon, quiet black basalt pools
Bore into the rocks and our own patiently withering bones
Slumbering swells of a salt-borne amnesia course through our fibrous limbs
Scorched, wandering
Brine secretes from every pore

The luminous point where logic becomes contemplation
Lost in thought, dreamless sleep, adrift in deep space
A black glow in the deepest sleepwalking seas

We do not live, we are lived
Pessimism, the last refuge of hope

Around you this night, a thousand million firefly anatomies
Breathe in and out in their slow burning, liturgical glow
Impersonal sadness, to become overgrown, like a ruin

We do not live, we are lived
Pessimism, the last refuge of hope

We do not live, we are lived
Pessimism, the last refuge of hope

We do not live, we are lived
Cosmic pessimism, the last refuge of hope