I can't imagine why else I could've been graced by your presence.
To me, you are everything
Everything evil and wrong
Everything beautiful and perfect
You are a statue, decorated by the artist
Your leggings and your sneakers are made of skin of children
And your thoughts are recycled dreams, of dead leaders and failures
We won't recall your name, you'll be a statistic
And like any pawn, if you make it all the way, I'll crown you myself
But you won't because I can't let that happen
I need your space, and your air
Seriously, I'm here to kill you
I take apathy like sugar pills
Looking for meaning inside it's empty walls
I can find what isn't there, but I can't afford to look.
I'm here to bring you back to life
Cut the umbilical cord that binds you
like a tether, a noose with two loops
Now you can be free
With wide eyes and caring
Shit's all fucked up these days.
Method to cope?
Modern Life is War.
In other news, I think I'll name my new band Hipster Death March. Ironic considering I'm writing in a blog and like to dress pretty, but seriously, read the newest Adbusters article on Hipsters. It's pretty spot on and depressing.
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