Mulder's p.o.v
Being without meaning, an unidentified entity
Even if there are holes in the ceiling and floor, birthday candles still burn
Immortality smells like death, a long drawnout breath
Near or far away, the one with the perfect hair and doll face always get lost in the crowd
Guitar chords recapture the essence of what used to exist
Right on time, Christ gathers up his children like a thief in the night
Only the lonely know how to stay strong and keep on going
White, black, or gray, everything remains a blur in the end
Even if the best of times turns into a tragedy, there is at least one kind person still around
Now and again, the one wearing a halo hits the ground