and now i'm left to the weary tired and busted cold and muted place without springtime's gentle grace without sunlight's warm embrace where the birds are black black as the street and black as the nights and their song is not a song at all it is a cry almost like they are pleading "why?" and in the chorus you hear a melody not in time and not in key and if you listen hard enough to the beautiful noise the colours of sound soon emerge and divulge themselves into new media into sight, into taste, into this romantic disrythmia and we rejoice in this cournocopia of euphoria and joy prompts us to relax but nights of cold and black and white must still pass by and we must know why. because there are times when happy dies. and we mourn. we cry. but at least now, we know why.