You need it for the guilt and defeat. You need it to steam up the mirrors as we face and we turn. We became magic. We became illusionists. It made you live for night, made you fuck the worth of dawns. The crescent digs in the palms of the traumas in tow and nothing but the hours in eyes, whether lost or survived, make it known. Yes, it's known. With every scar, every scathe and every mistake, you've got the blood on your hands built by the scratching of sticks. It made you live for night, made you fuck the worth of dawn and you birthed the blood of a world built on the scratching of sticks. We became magic, with no chance, nor rewards in the risk. We became magic. We became illusionists.