The journey goes on from the grey childhood to the fires of faith, the signs are followed among shadows, rats and wrecks. Through Hell and snow I go as they laugh and scream and wallow naked in the poisonous cold fields, roused in the comforting drunkenness. The journey goes on, time passes by and the sky is still grey and this greyness is the greatest of sins: the gentle snow which buries the souls and the world. And the sky is a lie, home of the cold black sun of a malignant god. Let it shine and feed the legions of fools. Let it shine and inspire those to bear its sight. And from the other side the black boy in the corner stares at me and his long time silent songs sing with a hint of despair from the halls of white death he has entered, behind the river and its black stream to which I used to drink and still drink and sing the songs of nostalgia. But no memory nor any rhyme, no matter the words, will dry Philomena's tears. And her tears feed the river, and so do mine. There is no hope nor mercy for those led astray and the roads disappear in the steady blizzard, and its knives of ice will numb your soul and kill your salvation in the halls of white death!