I do not exist, but faithfully insist,
Sailing in our separate ships and from each tiny caravelle.
Tiring of trying, with unecessary dying,
Like the horseshoe crab in it's proper season sheds it's shell.
Such distance from our friends,
Like a scratch across the lens,
Made everything look wrong from anywhere we stood.
And our paper blew away before we'd left the bay.
So half blind, we wrote these songs on sheets of salty wood.