The men of Flutes are tolerant of the view they see, from where they sit. It's pure fucking misery, with but the slimmest shot at better days ahead. They are thought about though - these slimmest shots at better days, amongst the gloomy and sleepless nights -- and that's almost all that can be asked, when all of the slices of cake that you're being offered are the ones that have fallen onto the ground, but have been saved, scooped from the floor and put back onto plates. The problem is that they can see the specks of dirt and hair lodged into the icing.
They sing, "I'll never make the frame on your kitchen wall," and while the notion is thought of as an aspect of missing someone, of a discontinued relationship, but it's that feeling that there's not much going on that deserves preservation that makes Flutes songs occupy such mostly doomed territory. Money's been burned, good, loved people have moved on, familiar voices have been forgotten and time has once again done it's best to remind everyone that they're largely powerless and can no longer even wind or set a clock to manipulate it. There's more wrong than right in these somber nights.