What oxygen can my love hope to provide as we’re choked to death on a dying star?

I want to share something: I should be severing the arteries of these vampires.

Cut them down where they feed, for their friends to see. Expose their veins, to be shown full of nothing.

But we’re all on the same track racing predestination, men we’ve never seen waiting for the best cut.

Just trying to get through the day, not sure if it’s the last one.

Do they win if it’s the last one?

Livestock outfitted in blinders, waltz up the ramp. Wait for the breeze of the bolt - hope one shot does the trick.

Bring it back to them. Leave them writhing, gargling their own teeth.

Hold it to them. Leave them writhing, gargling their own teeth.

If you need a sacrificial lamb: Welcome to the herd.

Die down here with the rest of us.

What oxygen can my love hope to provide as we’re choked to death on a dying star?