Mulder's p.o.v

Being without meaning, an unidentified entity

Even if there are holes in the ceiling and floor, birthday candles still burn

Immortality smells like death, a long drawnout breath

Near or far away, the one with the perfect hair and doll face always get lost in the crowd

Guitar chords recapture the essence of what used to exist

Right on time, Christ gathers up his children like a thief in the night

Only the lonely know how to stay strong and keep on going

White, black, or gray, everything remains a blur in the end

Even if the best of times turns into a tragedy, there is at least one kind person still around

Now and again, the one wearing a halo hits the ground