Supported by the crutches of human impotence, the wheel of life spins inexorably. Its stops are few – until it reaches the last stop of all. When we are born, it pauses long enough to take us on, and then it stops again, this second time enchanted into momentary stillness by the miracle of love. While we stand enraptured beside our beloved, seeing the moon and the vast night sky, as it were, for the first time, the decrepit wheel dangles its crutches idly and seems to burst into fantastic bloom. This is the magic hour, and when the spinning begins again we scarcely are aware of a faint, ominous creaking noise.
-Coronets 25th Anniversary Album
you want morbid? I’ll give you morbid, dollface.