On the distant horizon, there is a castle on a hill. It has always been there, and always will be. Yet on the long and lonesome road to that mystical place, There is a dark, gaping hole in the ground. And the people, blinded by its beauty, will often fall into that hole… Most of them will never get out. In fact, soon enough, they'll not even remember what was outside the hole. They will be too busy, surviving, as life passes them by like the shifting clouds above them - changing the scenery of their days. The Earth will move but they will not. But they will feel like it is them moving. And they will bear children in that hole, And their children will grow in the narrow mud and muck of it all, And the embrace of its cold-damp walls will even feel like home. Yet, when the stars are out, the very few will dream... Dream of some distant, sacred place - a silhouette of a silhouette, a shadow of a shadow. Like a memory from a bygone past, lifting itself up from the waters of their troubled minds. And, if they close their eyes, they might just hear the quiet song of those on their way there. And they will long for their place among them, among the joyful crowds. But the dirt and mud of the hole will have seeped inside of them now, deep into their very bones. It'll grow and fester within - a gaping wound that never heals. ...and the vision is gone, reality sets in.