Sailing to the edge of the world,
I travel with the painter’s daughter
We float for miles and miles,
over the black and bitter water.
We’re dying every day, but never dead
like ghosts trapped in a shell,
from where we sit, the world is gray,
in this little boat we call hell.
It’s strange indeed, this painful need
which we both share
to catch wind again, and leave this
dreaded place, which we call nowhere
So never drop anchor, never turn this ship ’round
we’ll see this til the end,
and I’ll waste away, as we waste away
these days together, my friend