We are all walking these streets under our own abysmal verdict. Frequently we hear that we’re faced by avoidable contamination. We’ve heard it before, that we must breed our skin apart from those others until our masks are solid and chaste, irremovable, useless. Force the skin’s hue down, imprison our colors on the nomadic streets. We need be single-minded to form our face into the perfect color of a perverted truth, this evolution is ugliest now, storming its infection across the world. We’re walking the streets, the roads, the twisting spheres bending away, humanity begging we refuse this council, this deception. One stride on this eartH, one long, delightful use of man, animal, dying now, ready to live. Our fuel’s the blood Under our skin, our reckless mind, the contagion. Understand this, our progression has long commenced. We cannot forgo its breathing revolution. We cannot, from its rise, ourselves remove. O! It will thrash our sticks and stones, and turn its heaven away
(The Weaver's Song)