Another weekend morning
Well, technically afternoon
The silence of screentime children in headphones
The soft whisper outside of traffic like Soft Swell
It could almost be idyllic
In bed, he checks his alerts, scrolls his socials, hate-reads the news
In the bathroom mirror, he's all grease and grey
His pale face pillow-creased, his eyes bloodshot and bloated
He examines his excretions, the brown piss and yellow shit
And mournfully strokes his fat, rock-hard belly
As he picks his purple nose and scratches his scrotum
And behind his half-asleep eyes
Yet again, a silent promise is being made
Will today be the day?
Of course it fucking won't
These Gregorian vows he makes to himself are a waste of time
And time doesn't matter to the cosmos, so why should it matter to him?
It's just a frame to hang his humdrum hopes on
It's just a measure of his decay
He knows he'll cave, he knows he's weak
He knows that called the form gape can never be filled
There's a hole within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole, within that hole
Within that hole
You can hear me, you can heal me
Come, my old friend, free me, feel me (I don't feel anything)
Warm me up and make me blush
Make me spill, and river rush (I don't need anyone)
My hippocampus needs your touch
My cerebellum needs its crutch (I don't want anything)
The days have names, the nights are long
It's nearly ten, and I'm not strong (I don't feel anything)
You can heal me, you can hear me
My old friend, you're always near me
Paroles2Chansons dispose d’un accord de licence de paroles de chansons avec la Société des Editeurs et Auteurs de Musique (SEAM)
