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So when you dream, / itâs neon streets / and game-show crowds / that wonât stop clapping. / Itâs hotel skies, / collapsing minds, / that heavy penance / for past lives, / the nights on fire, / the drunken slurs, / and the morning hits you / like a dirty word. // Oh, so you make enough money for your cigarettes, / but you canât implode without an audience / and your lungs try to tell you that youâre going soft / while your woman coughs. / So you finally got bored of the tourist traps / and of drinking with the girls for the full collapse, / so you stopped disagreeing with the acid thoughts, / âYeah, Iâm going soft.â // But when you sing to me, / I donât feel their teeth. / Ah, when you sing to me, / well, I donât hear anything / at all. // And she was singing, âDoes it eat at you? / Baby, âcause it eats at me, / but if theyâre getting sick of you, / then maybe theyâll get sick of me. // But you make enough money for your cigarettes, / so thereâs no real reason for an audience. / Well, they came, they came, they stayed a bit, and they just left. // So weâll domesticate our fears, / baby, weâll domesticate our vices, / and if you leave me, just donât leave me here / in this silence. // So will you sing to me? / âCause I still feel their teeth. / Oh, will you sing to me? / âCause I canât hear anything / at all // but our past lives, / just our past lives.â
- Álbum:
- Atheist Grief