The known frontier radiates into nothing. It even dies without a sound. The windfall of chills and the air, in a tarnished accordance, wasn’t here seven years ago. Looking back over a year, maybe she'll try and forget. Maybe she'll try and regret a life not lived before you die. We scatter the dust, and a dull gleam of copper is all that's left of a tired old storybook. You flogged your graveyard ghost, so let go. And they know where I live. I keep my windows closed tonight, and every night.