A crescent moon, half of a truth I can't and will never share with any of you. Kill me with a sword only made by those with broken tombs. "With this sword name me a carrier of bad news, call me Fortuna..Call me: me. Of shallow end I'll drown this sin, drown myself and the person that caused this fin. Goodbye.." My hair falls, my eyes fall, my chest falls, to all the same poem: the poem of sounds I made that very night "no". And on my knee I've said upon you only half a truth that neither you or I knew before this news.