The pace quickens and it’s a little late to run away It’s like having a fever and craving the snow, the wind in your face Maybe because it’s a biting thing, polar opposite from other kinds of pain That’s why you can’t feel it

Which way is freedom? Which way is relief?

Your fever will break by morning The madness will leave you This longing you feel This dissatisfaction

And what will be then left? Is age and death all there is left? Or by some joy of some success or mastery, will some truth of the way beyond this be made plain?

The waters recede from the shore, wave by wave Call it politics or greed or stupidity The end is not just coming The end us already here