There had to be a catalyst.  

Paths along the edge, always on the edge. Only one step away, guerrilla warfare.  We took it too far, well beyond the limit. Burning from within is who we were.  Shell shocked, and scared stiff. Closing all the blinds we embraced the dark.

In our dreams, always fighting forces, grasping seams. And all around were tsunamis crushing our small town.

But a dying gift, a map through the mist, a motherly hand through quicksand. 

Ghosts begone! (you don’t own me).

Ghosts begone! (you don't control me).

Between darkness and waking. 

Between loving and aching.

Is via mångata.