The sun's been coming down for a while now, and the sky is cracked, and though the warmth is gone I stretch my hands to get it back. But fear has made me small! and even on the tips of my toes I'm not tall enough to reach above the pale blue fence in the backyard, where I'm a child again looking through the posts at the clouds beyond the steeple, to sounds of birds singing songs like they don't know we're all doomed to die. I guess I've been gifted with the curse of better vision—I'm blind in both my eyes but I can see what I've been missing. While the sun's been coming down I've been throwing gold in a wishing well, wishing well, wishing I was tall again. Instead I should of warned the birds the music ends, that the curtain falls on everyone, and hindsight shows us everything. Let's sing it now.