I resort to impulse to escape the living face down in your indifference waiting to fall in line and I was never impressed with your addiction to conscience.
Pain has long been the lost humiliation of genius and I've been misled to believe that I was alone.
It always turns out better this way.
Sedated so you wont have to feel a thing.
I resort to impulse to escape the living.
Counting the imperfections down the lines of face.
When all the regrets and failures in you were so obvious pain has long been the lost humiliation of the soul and I've been caught between what's real and what's for sale.
I'm not the one who profits from stainless masquerades.
I've come to terms with my fixations and all your failing attempts faithful performances the timelessness of your act wont be the end of me.