You die in photographs.
The images, they never take you back.
At the point of no return in me, at the edge of lying to yourself (the murderous deceit).
And the secret debut screening, created in me, created just for me.
The keychain and bracet nine to five, what would you do?
And so I pray each and every day, that this would somehow only get a hold of you. And seal this fate as our last dying day. Could you help yourself before you come unclean?
What an interesting aside the core values of our time (we're dressed in red).
Advertise you're broken faith the answers come in time (all in due time).
Broken wings and broken legs, a broken heart, my feeble mind.
Run around the dancefloor. Home, turn around and go.
You're jealousness is tyranny. A brokenness is healing me.