The natural beauty of man-made lakes, correcting God's innocent mistakes, finding fault in imperfection, bury it all under new construction. The reservoir is an open wound, bandaged white by the weeping moon, bled from the rivers and lakes and streams to water the lawns and paint the plains green. When this city falls to the ground, we'll say something profound, or oh well.
Finding truth in human-nature, the uncertainties that we know for sure. In the end, we're only animals, another future fossil fuel. We consumed ourselves in suburban sprawl, dug our graves beneath the shopping malls, built our homes on shifting ground, and repeated every word until all we heard was sound. We tried so hard to listen, but we couldn't help ourselves; Oh Orwell.
There are a lot of people in this town with mundane answers about profound things. There are a lot of people in this town with profound questions about mundane things. There are ancient seashells in the banks of the brand new reservoir, remnants of an ancient sea that was once here, long before. Before the waters parted and land rose to form shores, before we killed our God and flooded the plains once more. Oh Orwell.