There’s a crack in the edge of the end of the world, where I will sit with my love in this fluorescent swirl. Eat us up, break it down to the tiniest cell in a room with a view and a window to hell, with those who bury bodies in the barrels of fun will be marched through museums that display what they’ve done. And be shot up through the sky by a cannon of sin, we’ll reluctantly let them in. So, can I lie in your grave?