Notes

On my grimy dresser there's a bottle of blue pills
Every morning I take one beneath my tongue and hold it still
Crois wakes up in a bed inside a trailer. The door isn't far away, but they still linger inside, searching the kitchen cabinets. He never remembers where he put the potions. Still, he finds them relatively quickly, popping one in his mouth and turning to go outside. They reach the edge of the wheat fields, hands brushing through the imitation corn. The whole world is soft and over-easy, the yolk of the sky rising in the east. White clouds move slowly as Crois pulls a pair of wings over his shoulders, grabs for a rocket, and lifts towards the sun.

and Mary has left me a note that there's breakfast on the stove
But she wakes up early next to John, and all the eggs are cold
There was a time where Crois woke up in a box, where a sprawling state was not theirs to claim. When they made dolls out of scraps of cloth and stuffing, simple things, sunflowers painted on them with an old fabric pen. The pen is covered in tiny teeth marks, the efforts of a small kitten trying to draw with it. Maybe someday in the future it rests on a windowsill. Maybe it's used for writing maker's marks into the bottoms of armor stands. For now, the little marker rests inside the cardboard. In the distance, a young cat wanders off to find some food.

Then Jesus comes to me again and grinning lifts his shirt
And I trace the scars on his chest, that his virgin birth
Had led him to,
Crois reaches the nether portal quickly. It's not really needed, but teleporting between dimensions has never stopped being nauseating. It's easier to travel to the nether spawn first, then teleport to the village. The village itself is mostly empty now, but his home is still waiting, the bright color of gold contrasting against the red overworld brick. David waits for him behind the door, arms outstretched, a smile gracing his face. A golden sword hangs from the wall, the mark of a warrior by choice, not by birth.

He was in a bind but he embraced the sacred
and God held his face and knew it but it still
didn't
save him
Crois wakes up in a bed inside a trailer. Dust sits in the corners, cobwebs marking the ceiling. The trees around Ohio lay unharvested, branches weighed down by bright red fruit. Crois reaches up and picks an apple, turns it a rich, deep yellow. The skin is tough to pierce, easier to dent. A cat's teeth can bite through it anyway. It weighs heavy in his hand, rolls off into the dirt when he glances at the sky. The clouds slowly start to move. He turns away from them, knowing they will still behind his back. They head inside the trailer, into the bed, and close their eyes again.

And I see far horizons where the lambs lie with the lions but
There are poppies growing over where my friends are lying, and
Despite the stillness, perhaps because of it, Crois cannot sleep. If they were to reach for their wings, fly far away to spawn, to the buildings and abandoned shops, they know what they'd see. He'd see bases left to ruin, old friends unconscious in beds, on chairs, lying across chests. He'd pile gold into a half-full collection that will never be found. Maybe, in the future, there would be life, bright and uproarious. For now, there are daffodils growing on dirt homes, unpicked by those that love them.

Paul had an old name but we never use it
And you may call me traitor, but my lover calls me Judas!
There was a time when Crois watched bright displays of sparks and fire. When the endless void stood below them as they clambered up mountains of white stone. When he laughed and yelled and spoke and sang. When there were people to kill and to know and run with. Now, the people will only wake up when they choose to. Now, Crois sleeps for months at a time, watching the signs of decay and the small changes left behind by rare visitors. Now, the server sleeps.

Hosannah, hosannah, hosannah in the highest!
Hosannah, hosannah, hosannah in the highest!