Hope is such a fickle thing,
It cannot be denied.
Despair allows no bickering,
It cannot be defied.

Over seas of endless storms,
I row my boat alone.
The pain will come in endless forms
To turn dreams into stone.

Hope is such a fickle thing,
It’s driven me insane.
I’ve long run out of songs to sing,
There’s no more blood to drain.

What Do You Know

Wherever I go,
The shadows will follow.
And what do you know,
In filth you will wallow.

At heart and in mind,
You haunt my tomorrows,
You’re one of a kind:
The source of my sorrows.

I dream of the sea
To drown my frustration:
Its only decree
Is breed desperation.

Wherever I go,
The shadows will cry fear.
Yet what do you know
Who left me to die here.

From the Lost Notes of the Deep Dweller’s Shipyard [New Fragment #6/Till Death Do Us Part]

Please never ask me how I keep going. I have no idea how – or even why, for that matter. All I know is this: The shadows will never tire of chasing me, and there is no long-term escape. Just now they are closing in on me again, as I stumble and sputter along the well-trodden path, bound for another fall. I can feel them everywhere, in the glaring sun as well as in the pale moonlight. The space to manœvre, or even move at all, decreases rapidly with each step and with each breath I take. I desperately clasp every little bit of happiness I have managed to get a hold on and tack on to my heart. Yet there is not a hope in hell when the time comes for the shadows to engulf me. And they will feast upon me, eagerly and mercilessly devouring whatever I may naively have believed to be mine to keep, from the fondest memories to the most intense feelings of love still lingering. Finally, they will leave me alone in the dark to rot for two eternities. Alas, they need my repeated suffering to nourish them, and so they will leave the seeds of false hope to be betrayed to grow another tree of life from within the despair-infested grounds. For where death would be the only true companion, only emptiness awaits to corrupt the very essence of my being. May the day that death do us part come soon.

Bríd Óg Ní Mháille

As I admitted elsewhere, traditional Irish music calls to me, as though it touched the very essence of my being. This traditional tune, Bríd Óg Ní Mháille, is, however, not only heart-wrenching if you know what the lyrics mean and connect them to the music, it may as well completely destroy you. It most certainly did destroy me.
There is also another modern version of this by the group The Corrs, but I prefer this version. To be sure, this is a matter of personal preference. Since I am not (yet) fluent in Gaeilge, I am simply going to provide a link to the lyrics here. I do not claim any rights or correctness thereof, both as to the original lyrics in Gaeilge and the English translation.
Now I shall leave you to the incredible beauty and sadness of this song.

From the Lost Notes of the Deep Dweller’s Shipyard [Fragment #16/The Post-Sanity Verses]

You did not come, nor did you follow,
The sparrows sing inside my head;
The dead of night awaits tomorrow,
When all is lost for good and bad.

No longer do I dread or fear,
Consume my thoughts, I bid you well,
The ancient call I must adhere
To, all is red now, gone to hell.

They fill the emptiness within my chest
With visions of the dark to rise;
I lay my weary head to rest,
Anticipate this world’s demise.

Forgotten are the ways of old,
Oh sparrows, sparrows, eat the skies!,
Begone, ye filthy heart of cold!,
We have arrived where all hope dies.

Life & Love, & Other Irrelevant Stuff

Life is an illusion – lucky you if you can mould it into a delusion working in your favour.

Love is a form of cancer – it devours you from inside and slowly decays.

Religion is a tool – making profit for the greedy and keeping the foolish in line.

Despair is a pale rider – it chases you all day to tire you and strikes you down at night.

Death is a number – the zero of all concepts.


Everything that has been bad
Would be good if I were dead:
Laughter about time and change,
Thoughts elusive and deranged.

What once was to come to be
Is long dead and gone, set free:
Echoes of a frozen past,
Gone to waste for good at last.

Listen to the silence creep
Into our minds to weep:
Backlash of those lost in time,
Witnesses deny the crime.

Make it all but into one,
Save me from the black heart sun:
Everything despair and dread,
Would be good if I were dead.