Prospect 2:
Under it all
new world
new world make with the hands of madness
These hands
They will always do the cutting
Piece by piece the pain gets worse
If only I could see myself right now

The haltering of flesh
Transforming my face into an unrecognizable state
Smooth out the eyes
Smooth out the lips
Every mirror is a past idea smashed upon recognition
(These selfish reason… the letter is all I left for explaining)

Will it be found?
Will the right hands deliver?
The heartache I left

Cut until all that is left is new material
Myself
Day in, day out
Deep down I know what I must do

So much happens behind closed doors
So much happens behind our closed doors
This key will open them
Expose us all
 [bad word] eyed symphony
Awakened by my [bad word] and moans
Why do I do this to myself?
I suppose the choice was all mine
God felt so much better before the mirror glimpse
On the surface I know what I must do

Folder 502:
The precaution documents
The failsafe way back "home".
Should I end it right here and now?
That would be far too selfish
I shall end what I've begun
The creation of more
More of us
The skin and bones of [bad word] An army of weak souls
Weak minds
Weak life

(written in a language I can understand. My brilliance seems questioned with these [bad word]  Fairley obvious for precaution documents I suppose. The "Night Owls" always send me back. Seems to be in their DNA)
.fade out.

I wake to my own whimper
Ship is counting down
Must regroup myself

The end starts now