The disengagement of the bubble is hypnotizing.
Some say below the doughy crust the beast is rising.
We like to talk about the past
We like to talk about the past
Well we talk about the past like it's the strangest dream
Then we repeat the things we never dreamed we'd do.
I understand that sometimes we all must dance with fuckery,
But everybody's pissing in the well of our suffering.
I want to breathe in all the ashes of the books they tried to burn.
I want to feel the pages in my skin and understand the words,
Castrate fiction, call it circumstance.
They say her wanderings are dangerous, all she wants to do is
Dance.
Dance.
Question period's over.
Don't you feel it? I do.
You'll be pummeled by the certainty of minions.
It's a puppet show, a theatre of opinions.
A of flack.
Feeder of the pack.
You can hear the shaky timbre of the voices most alone.
Yeah, it's easier to sing within the crowd.
Those who pretend to believe hardest
Might actually begin to
The nature of the bliss the warmth of ignorance gives into.
I want to breathe in all the ashes of the books they tried to burn.
I want to taste resilience on my tongue and love beyond concern
Mass-grave subtlety, leave it for the birds.
They say the world, it might be dangerous, but all it seems to do is
Turn (Bitten by the hand that feeds you)
(Holding to what you're beholden to) Question period's over.
Don't you feel it? I do
(Holding to what you're beholden to) Question period's over, don't you feel it? I do.
(Holding to what you're beholden to)