At sunrise the seagulls all swarm around the steeple of the church that stands tall in the middle of town. It's six on a Sunday and babies are crying, their mothers caught lying awake in their beds saying, "Not yet. Not yet. We could paint it white, under the disguise of infinite light."      Now everyone's tired in this tiny town and resentment grows up from way deep underground. While the faucets keep leaking and the floorboards keep creaking, we all lie and listen to the symphonic sounds that say, "You know it's happening later tonight. So, you savor the minutes you usually fight. We all had a hand in this brilliant disease. We all fed the cause of catastrophe."      You don't know what you see when it stretches far enough away from me. And it seems our love will have too soon expired, the night the whole world caught on fire.      Now the dust settles down from the cold, cloudy air. And the few men left standing just silently stare at the forests that glow with the forty-foot flames and the ocean that's screaming the sound of your name. So, I pick up a shovel-- the last thing to do-- and I dig a great hole and go in search of you.