"Do you still see me even here?" (The silver cord lies on the ground.) "And so I'm dead", the young man said over the hill (not a wish away). My friends (as one) all stand aligned although their taxis came too late. There was / a rush along the Fulham Road. There was / a hush in the Passion Play.
Such a sense of glowing in the aftermath ripe with rich attainments all imagined sad misdeeds in disarray the sore thumb screams aloud, echoing out of the Passion Play. All the old familiar choruses come crowding in a different key... Melodies decaying in sweet dissonance. There was a rush along the Fulham Road into the Ever-passion Play.
And who comes here to wish me well? A sweetly-scented angel fell. She laid her head upon my disbelief and bathed me with her ever-smile. And with a howl across the sand I go escorted by a band of gentlemen in leather bound NO-ONE (but someone to be found).