If all words are cameras,
Hold still.
Shutters slide to unveil
Fingerprints of angels
And a language made of film.

With surgical precision,
We'll cut every piece into order.
And beneath soft faces,
We'll climb halfway to God.

Why is it impossible now to know?
(Is this the way to understand?)
Why is it impossible now
To trace every echo
Back to it's birth?

All Lyrics Copyright 2006, Sleeping At Last