Mystic, madly torn apart,
I cry for you, ‘cause I can feel your faith
tumbling down in a silver spiral that leads to the end.
Is the sky falling down on us?
yes, from a dark old tree that cries my name.
Is he trying to make our visions and memories dissapear?
Maybe he just wants us to forget.
Why live in this eternal tragedy that spells disaster?
If only we'd pass out in a lonely bed underneath the world,
underneath your systematic universe that believes in nothing but shame and pain.
Who are we and what the hell are we doing with our illusion?
Are we living it out or crushing it between our tense, shaky hands?
Why do we all have to BE in this constant fear of love, hate, and death...
Sitting in this squared little office, absurdity becomes king,
king becomes life, life becomes routine, routine becomes dying,
dying becomes end, and yes....we are all dead or on our way to it.
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