The past is an enormous place, with all sorts of things inside. Not so with the present. The present is merely a narrow opening, with room for only one pair of eyes. Mine.
All the things that I’d done. Memories, they never hurt me. The past is more than memories. It’s the devil you sold your soul to.
They say hope begins in the dark. That faith is the bird that feels light when the sky is still dim. But with every tomorrow we carry our past. It echoes beneath our feet. There are no clean slates.
Through the dark of futures past, the magician longs to see, one chants out between two worlds, fire walk with me!