... the same as any dream. Only it's mine, and never before have my nails hurt so much as I reach the dewey night air above. So, now where are we now? The summer, a sly judgmental prick waiting to scorch us alive like all of the darkness before us. And after us. But now the sun is gone for the night and this is our grave.

Or at least, what's left of it.

C'est votre cercueil de mon amour, jouis. La plupart d'entre nous ne conna�tront jamais � quoi cela ressemble.