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"It was daylight when you woke up in your ditch. You looked up at your sky. That made blue be your colour. You had your knife there with you, too. When you stood up, there was goo all over your clothes. Your hands were sticky. You wiped them on your grass, so now your colour was green. Oh, lord, why did everything have to keep changing like this. You were already getting nervous again. Your head hurt, and it rang when you stood up. Your head was almost empty. It always hurt you when you woke up like this. You crawled up out of your ditch, onto your gravel road, and you began to walk, waiting for the rest of your mind to come back to you. You could see the car parked far down the road, and you walked toward it. If god is our father, you thought, then Satan must be our cousin. Why didn't anyone else understand these important things. When you got to your car, you tried all the doors. They were locked. It was a red car, and it was new. There was an expensive leather camera case laying on the seat. Out across your field you could see two tiny people walking by your woods. You began to walk towards them. Now red was your colour. And of course, those little people out there were yours, too." - Tool 
Within these painted walls may you find a moment of respite, for beyond this shimmering glass you see all about you, the shifting and prosaic world pours out forever. But here at least, the cities are voiceless, and there is darkness to hide inside, niches where you can converse with the broken, leather-bound angels, whose wings pour like molten metal, and who call this corner of cyberspace their resting place. So stay, and slumber, it's been far too long already. Stay, and veil yourself from the torrents of pouring tarmac, and from the dull, glassy-eyed streetlight. Stay, and share what tears you can afford with the crumbling stone and glowing glass. Stay, and let the world dissolve around you, fall into the depths of the darkness. Stay . . . and relinquish your claim to radiance. 
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