§¨§¨¨¨¨§¨¨                                          §¨¨§§§¨¨¨¨
§§§§¨¨¨§§¨                                          §§¨§¨¨§¨¨¨
§¨¨¨§¨¨§¨§                                          ¨¨§§§¨§§¨¨
§§¨¨§§¨§§§                                          §¨§¨¨§§¨§¨
§¨§¨§¨§§¨¨                                          ¨§§§¨§¨§§§
¨§§§§§§¨§¨ I Follow The Tire Tracks  West.  They Go §§¨¨§§§§¨¨
¨§¨¨¨¨¨§§§ Parallel With  The  Railroad,  With  Its ¨¨§¨§¨¨¨§¨
¨§§¨¨¨¨§¨¨ Endless  Mirrors Looking  Kinda Oily. An §¨§§§§¨¨§§
§§¨§¨¨¨§§¨  Incredible Power Bound There... There'S ¨§§¨¨¨§¨§¨
§¨§§§¨¨§¨§ A Wire Fence To Separate The  Two Roads. §§¨§¨¨§§§§
¨§§¨¨§¨§§§                                          ¨¨§§§¨§¨¨¨
¨§¨§¨§§§¨¨ Even  Though  There'S A Foggy Quality To ¨¨§¨¨§§§¨¨
¨§§§§§¨¨§¨ The  Air, The Path I Follow  Is Glowing. §¨§§¨§¨¨§¨
¨§¨¨¨¨§¨§§ A  Yellow-Green  Moss  Has   Taken  Hold ¨§§¨§§§¨§§
§§§¨¨¨§§§¨ Where  The  Machines  Who   Made   These §§¨§§¨¨§§¨
§¨¨§¨¨§¨¨§ Tracks Once Disturbed The Clover  Field. ¨¨§§¨§¨§¨§
¨§¨§§¨§§¨§                                          ¨¨§¨§§§§§§
§§§§¨§§¨§§ We'Re  Off The  Season  When  The  Birds ¨¨§§§¨¨¨¨¨
§¨¨¨§§¨§§¨ Sing  Beautifully. These Days It'S  Just ¨¨§¨¨§¨¨¨¨
§§¨¨§¨§§¨§      Screeches, Or Calls For Help.       §¨§§¨§§¨¨¨
§¨§¨§§§¨§§                                          ¨§§¨§§¨§¨¨
§§§§§¨¨§§¨ I   Think  Of  The   Jackdaw  I   Maimed §§¨§§¨§§§¨
§¨¨¨¨§¨§¨§   Yesterday. I Fear The Dreaming gate.   ¨¨§§¨§§¨¨§
¨§¨¨¨§§§§§                                          §¨§¨§§¨§¨§
§§§¨¨§¨¨¨¨                                          ¨§§§§¨§§§§
¨¨¨§¨§§¨¨¨                                          ¨§¨¨¨§§¨¨¨
¨¨¨§§§¨§¨¨                                          §§§¨¨§¨§¨¨
¨¨¨§¨¨§§§¨                                          ¨¨¨§¨§§§§¨