Gazing ahead but well knowing they're blind Like looking for stars that they'll never find Synthesized instinct establishing drive Extending to nerves, engulfing the spine Catatonic, they think that it's real A curve in the Arc, it becomes a wheel "Minutes like seasons - a rush of air Inducing reason - but burning a flair." There's a hand that reaches through minds Probing far and wide And in time you will learn to receive what it finds A process sublime "It can't burn on forever, it dies. The hand, a beholder to see you through time." "Time? Time is a winding dial. " Minutes, seconds going by Glimpses, fractures, micro-sized Connecting the panes together The shades bleed and the cracks collide into passages "Sweeping the forefront, it works beneath the brain."