All the homes on the globe are like the television in your eyes. A cross guarding your heart the living years a sacrifice. A shiver at the door in the night, clouds cross a black moonlight. Rushing on down to the sound of a turning world. There's a south by sou'westerly force eight coming in strong. Across the continental shelf from the cold grey Malin beyond. The need to keep control. The need to stand alone at the edge of the world. The adrenalin infrastructure bringing on it's troubles some more. All the laws of the jungle stranded on your latest shore. But the waves hold the healer force. The years disappear like a ghost. Somewhere out of the sight of the night and the light of day. Now civilisation groans and the news reel cries. Like a drowning man his life in front of his eyes. But the need to keep control. The need to bare the soul at the edge of the world. And the man from St. Kilda went over the cliff on a winters day. At the edge of the world. At the edge of the world.