Man kan tro att huvudet var fullt av mörka tankar, men om de fanns där så kanaliserades de ut i mörka texter och mörk musik.
The ground is crushing my soul.
The hounds are hunting my body.
This too white snow as cold as my fear
drives me insane, it makes me stumble.
It’s time for me to understand
that I’m not chasing an unknown future.
It’s the past that hunts me into it,
always too fast and there at last,
freedom in the arms of Earth.
Forward is a blinding view.
Backwards, boring and depressive.
The hounds of time scratch my health,
tear me apart, open me up inside.
Time runs through my head.
A head frosty and fragile.
Melts my mind with the warmth of change.
The difference keeps people floating
But I keep on crawling,
brawling with my shadows,
tracing myself into a landscape of
unfulfilled dreams.