Comes With The Fall I - A Prologue (opening credits)

Stumble smiling down the sidewalk
Beneath a blanket of icy October stars
Torn jeans, scraped knee from falling in fall
Ochre leaves tangled in matted hair
Shivering, teeth chattering like morning finches
Although the cockles of your heart
Lie warmed from the whiskey shots
A swift kick to the peeling paint on the picket gate
Then down the cobblestone path
Fumbling for the duplicate door key
Ascend the stairs, a slow dance with the safety rail
Finally collapsing in a sorry pile
On the crumpled bedsheets
The room is spinning, a dizzy carousel
Dotted lights dance and burst
The room keeps spinning
And the fall begins...
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CWTF II - A Dead Sparrow

Eyelids slowly flicker open
To take in a roughly painted teal wall
In soft focus with a vague familiarity
Tacked up Polaroids and rosary beads
Can't quite feel the floorboards
Of a now recognizable bedroom
In a once childhood home
Step out of the backdoor
Welcomed by a gusty wind
Surveying a scene of flailing sycamores
And the splintered stems of foxgloves
A strangled howl bursts from the creaking kennel
Hidden somewhere in the depths of the backyard
It causes the heart to freeze in the cavern of the chest
Place one foot infront of the other
In time with the rattle and stomp of rusted chains
A fluttering tawny bird flies alongside
With a deep crimson seeping from it's wounded breast
It chirps a taunting round, slightly off-key
"We want our dead dogs back"
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CWTF III - We Want Our Dead Dogs Back

The windswept streets lie eerily silent
Their chipped gutters becoming a recent home
To crumpled soda cans and frayed milk cartons
A grainy black and white face stares back at me from one
A girl I used to be familiar with
I divert my gaze and keep on walking

The tormented howls still resonate
As I pass twisted and disfigured street signs
Though I know them well enough not to forget
Charcoal colored clouds plume from the factory smoke stats
But Collingwood Street sits empty

The candy cane arms are held in the defensive position
Red lights flashing trigger memories of ambulances
Still no engine is in sight
I duck underneath and carry on my way

I'm nearing the other side of town
But legs are starting to set like cement
Tumble to already cut knees
Crawling the rest of the way
Leaving a sticky trail of seeping blood
And apprehension behind me
As her house comes into sight
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CWTF IV - Small Films about Young Women, Deceit, and Exceptionally Good Coffee

Sun flares through the cigarette smoke film
On the underside of the windshield
She laughs, eyes soft pools of brown
The tone of her dress matching the interior upholstery
Small town scenery rushes by
As warm summer air pours in through the open window
Sickly sweet and intoxicating

Sprawled in the midst of an overgrown garden
Climb the ladders in her stockings
Twigs etch their names in ivory arms
Hands get painted brown with loamy soil
Her dress smeared and stained

The sirens of several ambulances
Ring through the crisp night air
Their lights illuminating the streets
The color of blood and veins
Take hast, flee the scene
Down a winding country route
Past lonely fields and crumbling churchyards
Cut the headlights, kill the engine
But the agonizing truth
Of what has been done by your hand
Does not punctuate
Not yet
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CWTF V - The House Party Scene

Slowly they descend the stairs
Perfectly painted in pallid reflection
Take a fragile hand
Careful not to fumble and draw blood
While pinning the corsage
It's an elegant ritual
Thinly disguising it's more primitive origins
Pour over ice - a little too strong
Numb the mind, overstimulate the bloodstream
We are all too eager
Let us begin

Trail her into an unknown bedroom
Lead with the eyes with matching smiles
Unlike the color of the respective withering flowers
Satin slip gets lifted, thigh revealing
Shoulder strap breaks as promises crumble
Your Father would scold
But secretly be swelling with pride under the surface
A rite of passage
As old as the dawn of time
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CWTF VI - A Prayer for Saint Mary

Early 90's BMW, the color of champagne
Rolls through pools of left over downfall
Collected in the side street's cavaties
Headlights dipped for early morning fog
Sweep over wrought iron fencing,
Winter-bare trees and Catholic school girls
Dressed in shades of grey
'What Difference Does It Make?' never rang so sweet
Leather-gloved hands steer into the churchyard
Cut the life from the engine
Under the future shadow of a towering yew
Stroll through the garden of stones
Capturing light and hanging clove-smoke
In the airs porcelain chill
Take in the stained glass silhouettes
Of Demons and Saints
Tread the worn stone path 
And wonder if one will be buried in consecrated soil after all
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CWTF VII - Boo Radley

Door creaks open painfully slow
Is anybody home?
An apparition of his mother's basement
Haunting the space between the brick walls
Something stirs in a damp corner
Next to the musty mattress
Untrusting eyes scatter across your face
Poignant feeling rises from the pit of your stomach 
It's good to take you in
You've been dead since twelfth grade
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CWTF VIII - A Slow Death in the Paperwork Cathedral

Stagger along the street for blocks
With only office complexes and the occasional bar for scenery
Everything is coated with a thick crust of dust and grime
A crackling neon light once read 'HELLO THERE' 
Only now the 'O' and the 'T' have fizzled out and died
Leaving "HELL HERE'
You enter trying to stay as incognito as possible
A dozen or so indifferent eyes fall on you
Ties are loosened around their necks resembling nooses
It's like staring into a hall of mirrors
These men are just like you
The bartender clears his throat with impatience
You order a beer then take a seat at a dirty table alone
Sit there playing with a worn book of matches
Striking one at a time and dropping them into the ashtray
To burn out - just like you did
3/4's of a bottle down, a shrill buzzer cries
The patrons all pick up their briefcases
And walk out into the night
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CWTF IX - In Transit

Leave your briefcase in the bar with the tip
Stand on the corner and call a cab to the terminal
Before ditching your cell phone in the trash
Light up ignoring the cabbie's protests

Spend your last dollars
On the first flight out of there
Someplace further north
Where you can settle and
Breathe in the rich summer air
And maybe find a replacement photograph
For the vacant space in your wallet

Residing in a cheap motel
And working as a clerk
At the local grocery store
Until you can afford the bond
For that run down house on the hill
On the outskirts of town
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CWTF X - Manuscripts

The bulb burns dim
A moth flutters about the glass
Then collides with it
It is a small room, furnished lightly
The walls whisper suggestions and half truths
Whilst outside the furs sway
To the rhythm of the keys pattering against the ribbon
The coffee mug has painted three quarter circles
In sporadic patterns on the desk
And the cigarettes have scattered their ashes across the surface
Stories keep spilling from the mind and pouring from the fingertips
Though you never did write her one song
Nevermind, she will make for a decent muse now
Become a succession of letters and apostrophes
That stumble across the page
Searching for self worth and meaning
But finding no conclusion
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CWTF XI - A Sending

A terrible screech comes from outside
Followed by the tinkle of shattering glass
Which can barely be heard
Over the howl of the wind and roar of the rain
Letting out a string of profanities, you stand
Knocking the antique oak chair to the floor
The sound came from above
In that stale attic room, in which you fear to tread
It holds near-forgotten diaries
Journals that keep your secrets safe between their battered pages
And walls in which irksome poltergeists and revealing Polaroids call home
Every miserable failure, laid out for you to take note
A trophy cabernet of the defeated
Though it is not something you need reminding of is it
You know all too well

Each step groans and creaks underfoot
The flickering candle you hold
Casts dancing shadows on the wall
The door swings open by itself
And you step through
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Comes With The Fall XII - An Epilogue (closing credits)

Groan and stir still clad in last night's clothes
Rub enough sand from your eyes to fill a small desert
Seven AM sun spills through the window
In several small beams, dissected by the branches of the beech
Feels like a sledgehammer has been taken to your skull
And mouth tastes like 100 ashtrays
Mind is full of fleeting imagery
Can't shake the feeling that the night's sleep brought strange dreams
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In Colder Blood

Inept smile cast upon the wasteland of youth
A naive cult of the consummated unwed
Their eyes may seem to hold a certain gleam
But the skin owns the chill of the recently dead
And fickle hearts are void of a slither of sincerity

These seeds planted in her desolate womb
Have no chance to ever flourish
And even if - by some slim of fate
Will be killed with the first hoar frost

This seasoned curse is irreversible
But I will still lie and wait in this darkened room
In hope to consume that Arctic-like flesh
In colder blood
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Lakeside Doomsday Cult

I step through the door clearly marked FIRE EXIT and the cold December air wraps around me like an icy blanket. I fumble in my jacket pocket for a beat-up pack of Camel Lights, find them and light one. This is as close as I've got to quitting, switching from regular to lights. But that's pretty much life isn't it, when you're a kid you aspire to being a doctor, you grow up to be a nurse. Hell, sometimes I still wonder how I made it that far, with all the pot I was smoking in college.
I stand puffing furiously on my cigarette, trying to get in as much nicotine as I can in such a short amount of time. I swear to God I'm the worst employee in the continent, I get off in half an hour and here I am slacking off for a fucking smoke. Christ.
The snow has stopped falling for now, the gloomy black clouds have gone their separate ways leaving a strangely pretty dusk. A deep orange with streaks of smoke-like charcoal, carving the late year Canadian sky into a god-sized Jack O'Lantern.
My thoughts are penetrated then shattered by the, like everything else in Lakeside General Hospital, badly aging intercom speakers crackling and hissing a demand.
Oh Christ.
Room 3 is where a looney guy from some hardcore Christian settlement on the edge of town is temporary residing. Like, or what rumor says anyway, is that it's a border line cult, and they are all obsessed with the idea that the end of the world is coming and that angels are gonna descend to Earth and save all that have faith, leaving the rest of us to burn for eternity in Hell, which is what Earth will apparently become during the whole party, or some such bullshit.
I take one last drag, inhale deeply, then let the thick blue smoke drift lazily from my mouth before discarding the 3/4 smoked cigarette (what a damn waste) on the asphalt and head back inside to see what all the fuss is about.
I make a pit stop at one of the staff bathrooms to piss and to stash my jacket so I don't get busted slacking off. The man that stares back at me from the speckled mirror looks tired, actually tired is an understatement. More like the living dead. Five day shadow strewn across his lower face, hair sticking up in tufts at odd angles, looking like he just dragged his sorry ass out of bed. And where the hell did those crow's feet come from? Some giant hourglass wielding corvidae that comes in the night and curses us all with our own mortality?
I squint and grimace as I notice that salt flecks are already beginning to be laced with the pepper in my once jet-black hair. Hell, I'm only 27 too.
I run some lukewarm into my cupped hands so it forms a small pool, then splash it into my face. My energy levels have gone to the dogs in the past year or so, constantly groggy and lethargic, I've tried iron supplement pills and eating more red meat but it's been to no avail. Nothing seems to make a difference. I rub my eyes and spit into the chipped hand basin and head out of the bathroom. 

 The religious nut is really flipping out this time. Three nurses are trying their very best to sedate him but failing miserably as he's thrashing about like the mad man he is. Luckily (not for him) he's cuffed from the wrists to the metal bed. Crazy bastard's trouble that's for certain. He arrived here a couple of days ago, brought in by the cops after a showdown in the local Chapters bookstore. Apparently he had strolled in, jumped up onto the counter and started preaching to the poor folk who had just wanted a new paperback to read on a cold Manitoban Winter's day. By what the cops said he had really gone to town aswell, like waving his arms about and raving about end times. Old Jim, the store's owner told him to get the hell out or he'd call the cops but that only seemed to work him up even more. He started screaming like a banshee, pushed Old Jim onto his ass, then dropped to his knees gibbering to himself in tongues. Jim got back up, grabbed a huge English dictionary from a shelf and clobbered him around the head with it. Then he called the cops.
They arrived, put him in cuffs, bleeding nose and all and took him over here. To be honest I think they just didn't want to deal with him down at the station, which I don't blame them for, but the fucker really needs to be in a psych ward but the doctor who does the admissions down the road is on vacation in Seattle, seeing his family or something. So for the time being the lovely people at Lakeside General are stuck with him.
'Goddamnit Bobby! Are you just gonna stand there?' Victoria, one of the nurses shouts, unable to suppress the exasperation in her voice. Victoria's quite good looking, a brunette with a killer  figure, with curves like the end of a hockey stick. I've found I've had a few closer moments with her on the night shift when there's not much to do. One of these days, fingers crossed. I wish the same could be said for the other two, one's a she-dragon who must have lived here when Lakeside was just a few M├ętis teepees pitched on the South West side of the water. The other is a sour-faced woman named Cynthia who really has it in for me and always looks like she has a mouthful of lemon juice. 
I have a terrible habit of zoning out alot, you know, just getting lost in thought. It can happen mid-sentence, I'll just blank out.
I manage to grab his legs and hold them down so the She-Dragon can administer the sedative, though I wouldn't mind to see her kicked in the stomach. Or the Ice-Queen Cynthia either come to think of it. The fucker's writhing around like crazy even though I have his ankles in a death-grip, he kicks free of my hold and plants a firm kick straight in the belly of the She-Dragon causing her to drop the sedative before she can dose him up. A horrible choking sound comes from her throat, she clutches at her stomach and drops to the ground winded.  I guess wishes do come true, though I do feel a slight pang of pity for the old girl.
Christ, he's really wound up now, eyes wide as saucers and raving in a frenzy.
'Our lord will take us to the promised land! we who hold onto the faith!, and serve!, serve the lord with all our pure hearts!, oh mighty lord! Heavenly Father! The sinners and unbelievers will fall to your sickle of glory! And bathe in the rivers of blood and fire! And Burn! Burn! Burn! Oh this wretched earth will become the new hell! You will all spend eternity here for your blasphemous ways! Your squalorous souls will atone for your malevolence!'
'Blah, blah, fucking blah, we get the point Charlie Manson'
His bed is rattling like the chains of an old ghost from a forgotten chain gang. The She-Dragon is still on the ground in a sorry pile, Cynthia has ran off somewhere, probably to try and get help, though I'm not sure who she thinks she is going find, maybe she'll call Ghost Busters. That leaves Victoria, who is standing there looking pretty damn helpless.
'C'mon Vic, let's get this Looney under control, grab that sedative from the floor, it's over there by the window' 
The fluorescent tube lighting on the ceiling starts to crackle and flicker and the other vacant beds in the room seem to have started shaking also, the previous patients got moved to the next room after the fruitcake got moved in. I try and make sense of the situation; surely our religious buddy isn't freaking out hard enough to shake the other beds and definitely not enough to screw with the wiring. And then it hits me, the painfully obvious answer: a goddamn earthquake. Though it's pretty rare to have one in these parts.
'Victoria! Better find somewhere to take cover, I think we have an earthquake on our hands now too'
'Oh shit, you really think?'
Suddenly it seems like the sky has exploded, globes of burning orange sailed across the night burning bright and blinding, then dropping straight downwards. It was as if the stars were falling to their death. It was the most horrible sound I had ever heard, unfathomably loud, it was as if all the cars in the continent collided simultaneously, and then some. Then silence, everything was dead quiet. The window shattering made no sound, the cracks that tore across the plaster walls gave no noise.  
I'm thrown off my feet and into the wall with a severe force by what I guess is some kind of shockwave, sliding down and crumpling in a pitiful pile on the linoleum. Vision is blurred and I'm feeling strangely euphoric. I can make out the shape of Victoria across the room, also in a pile on the floor, though there is a puddle of seeping crimson circling her. I Believe I'm crying out to her but I have no way of knowing if I am or not. Breathing seems to be slowing. Everything is flickering like my Grandfather's 16mm home movies, dancing sprites of burning light across the surface of staggered sight. Christ, my head's beginning to hurt, feels like the worst hangover of a lifetime, like passing out after a bottle and a half of Canadian Club and a handful of pills then waking six hours later to an alarm blaring like an air raid siren and you manage to pull your sorry ass out of bed only to find you're all out of painkillers and Alka Seltzer.
Fuck. Victoria.
You know maybe I could have actually had something with her, she's a nice girl, the type of girl you could happily crawl into bed beside every night and not wake up regretting it. Or should I say was, past tense is probably more accurate now.
I must be borderline delusional now, the blow to my head screwing something up in my brain because a figure is descending through the fractured ceiling. Oh shit, I'm losing it. The figure is a man with blonde hair in little curls and chiseled features, imagine Michelangelo's David growing wings and flying off into the evening. Wings? Shit. The man has fucking wings.
He's hanging in the air above his bed. He smiles, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, then flaps his feathered wings and drops closer to him, about a foot or two above the bed. Light is starting to seep through the ceiling, tender and pale.
He reaches out and takes him in his arms, cradling him like a small sick child. He looks into the angels eyes and tears are streaming down his face. They ascend back through the ceiling and into the chaos of the sky.
I can feel a warm trickling down my neck. I must have cracked my skull.
Growing fainter.
Growing very faint.
It's ending.
I can feel the life leaving me...
It's ending.
It's ending.

It's beginning.
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