Portobello

One more breath means another second spent, misrible old man, doesnt speak but for the words on his so precious pages, while the children roam. Oceans aren't endless here, when there's always islands on the horizon, paled coloured and misty. They're just distant shadows as the lives that we lead are to them, we're all just msty shadows.
Children are tiny pockets of energy.
Lets build a castle to put all of our thoughts into, lets fuel them with that deathly pop and crackle of the fire, lets forever try and find our way out of the prison that is the only way for them to thrive.
Just like the mean old man who makes the sun come up, who helps the girl find her kitten. Lets tell a story with pictures that move out of our mind, out the window and fly to find someone to tell it to, someone to tell that we are trapped. And all they see is the music, the moon sings to them and does nothing more than dimly light the scratches on the wall, shinning into how deep they run, how hard we claw our way through it.
If nothing we do matters then the only thing that matters is what we do with that. You'll just know that these virtues are not your own... Come to me, I have kisses for the back of your neck where the skin is smoothest and hidden, and let them run to find their way inside to something divine. I can kiss the gate of your soul before i burry myself on the beach... the sand gets colder the deeper you go.
And the magic inventor will come and make a special machine that will let me talk you out of the spider net.
Even the crockery will scream at the end of it all, and they'll select someone to say the words till the short end of time. Till it becomes sly and stagnantly stoic.. Peeking over the start of the last night.
Find something that is so... precious that you can't bare to let it go, and tie it like a note to a pigeons leg. It won't be here, there or anyway hopeful of being delivered. Double pinned bars to the floor and the wall, maybe something was taken from him, he walks up to the wall and screams to the highest window, screams that nobody wants to laugh. The first jester just put his make-up on the wrong way, and everybody followed. He walked out of the iron gates, slowly away carrying his limp. Let me take you by the arm, by the hand and we'll see what you picked up.