As compassionate assassins we're indecisive in matters of love and war.
We tend to forget the places we've explored and of the opportunities we fail to seize.
We'll do our best to ignore.

And of our failed revolutions, none will be mourned.
Because we bought the right guns for the wrong wars.
You know I'll wake up yearning for change, thinking from the synapses in the stem of my brain.
The risks are understood, by then you're gone for good.
So just take a second to breathe and habituate to the pain.

Our lives are engrained in pictures of passing trains.
Our lives are enframed in the stillness of a placid page.
But you get use to the stillness of a fucking stagnant life.
Some of us are moving or at least we're trying.
Swallow your delusions and hold them inside.
Digest the combinations of false hope, and swallowed pride.
And of our failed revolutions, none will be mourned.