The weight of flesh; the weight of grace.
The sack of flesh; these moments of grace.
The weight of flesh; the weight of grace.
The sack of flesh; these moments of grace.

We are drunk now, the genesis of you and I.
As the wheeling falcon eats my flesh,
ripping at the ribbons of carnality,
your memory unfolds,
you were born of memory.
The past retreats deep within your garden,
the soil now afire.
(The last ceremony of our sickness.)
Each moment broken by this paradigm of sickness.
Memory as an autumnal hymn;
suggestions of Christ's birth;
serpents coming ever closer...

(We are drunk now, the genesis of you and I.)
We are drunk now.
The twilight has burnt away,
each fountain emptied of pleasure,
neither rock nor stone remains.
I erect myself within the death constellation
far beyond the passage of ages.
This dream was mine, apostolic,
(The last spectacle of this arcane embrace.)
dissolving within this sidereal embrace.
This dream was not my own;
I am drunk with language and exhaustion.
(We are drunk now, the genesis of you and I.)
We are drunk now, the genesis of you and I.
I am not here to feed you.
(We are drunk now, the genesis of you and I.)
This dream was not my own.

-excerpt from the title track "The History of Flesh"