Two metalux bodies crawl.   Screaming fast, grinding slow.   Crows they feather in the sky, and crash into my one room ride.   Locked down, stuck in.   White cell, staring thru a window.   Dirty glass streaks pictures of your face.   You're looking down upon my formaldehyded state.   There's nothing wrong with my head.   Nothing wrong.   Here comes a bloody swinging sythe.   Blade is staring thru my neck.   Certain scent slicing by.   Now is it you coming back?   Black cloud, white light, cold breath slithering around me.   I'm falling thru myself.   A plate glass ride.   Broken skin rings my neck.   The metal tape rewinds.   There's something wrong with my head.   Oh no.