-We want the same thing.
-I’m sorry, my friend, but we do not.
The end rushes toward me. Unable to eat, or sleep. Like Ewing, the mortal coil has become a noose.
Would rather become music.
“Enjolras, don’t go…”
“I have to. You know I have to.”
“Then I’ll fight there, with you.”
Can you hear the people sing?
Singing a song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
who will not be slaves again!
When the beating of your heart
echoes the beating of the drums,
there is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes!