§¨¨¨¨¨§§§§                                          ¨§§§§§§§¨¨
§§¨¨¨¨§¨¨¨                                          §§¨¨¨¨¨¨§¨
§¨§¨¨¨§§¨¨                                          ¨¨§¨¨¨¨¨§§
¨§§§¨¨§¨§¨                                          ¨¨§§¨¨¨¨§¨
¨§¨¨§¨§§§§                                          §¨§¨§¨¨¨§§
§§§¨§§§¨¨¨ 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.   ¨¨¨§§¨§¨§¨
§¨§¨§§¨¨¨¨                                          ¨¨¨§¨§§§§§
¨§§§§¨§¨¨¨                                          §¨¨§§§¨¨¨¨
¨§¨¨¨§§§¨¨                                          §§¨§¨¨§¨¨¨
¨§§¨¨§¨¨§¨                                          ¨¨§§§¨§§¨¨
¨§¨§¨§§¨§§                                          ¨¨§¨¨§§¨§¨