The soul is a pit oubliette In your gut deja vu shaky nausea Quasy uneasy awful feelings identity A mask to me stale consolation Prize my life is not to realize the prison Of myself justifications shitty consolations Holy shit you put a circle of candles Around it holy shit stacks of vinyl Dirty books the bones of our dead Wrapped in golden foil blurry Memories blood on the Bedsheets what could this be mystery Upon mystery the soul is a sea