Letra de Chapter 19 - Yann Tiersen

To live outside the pale
is to wither and die.
Beyond the pale
there are only dressed-up cadavers.
They are wound up each day,
like alarm clocks.
They perform like seal;
they die like box office receipts.
But in the seething honey-comb
there is a growth as of plants,
an animal warmth almost suffocating,
a vitality which accrues
from rubbing and glueing together,
a hope which is physical
as well as spiritual,
a contamination which is dangerous but salutary.
Small souls perhaps,
burning like tapers,
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but burning steadily
and capable of throwing portentous shadows
on the walls which hem them in.

All goes round and round,
creaking, wobbling, lumbering,
whimpering some-tunes,
but round and round and round.
Then, if you become very still,
standing on a stoop, for instance,
and carefully think no thoughts,
a myopic, bestial clarity besets your vision.
There is a wheel,
there are spokes,
and there is a hub.
And in the center of the hub there is exactly
nothing.