We all live in a portable mansion made of Marilyn Manson's ribs and Shane MacGowan's teeth, and walls made from the skin that our victims were bored of being in. Stay out of bed; you can sleep when you're dead. Post-its on your mirror to cram all the shit in your head until you find a place where our eyes can't explode out of our face. Endless quotations. Just searching for some inspiration.

Frozen peas, sad-looking trees, tattered posters looking down on old CDs, and this abandoned drum kit echoes and dissolves into space. What do you care? We breath the same air. We read those ghost stories and swore that we weren't scared, and the streetlights danced and flickered as we dared to dream of something bigger. I built you a dream house. Can't we talk this out?

The face, the place, the everything. I remember everything. I'd like to get lost in these woods and sleep for a month. Tell yourself it's over soon; keep that little thought with you like a box in the corner of your mind, a ceasing aperture. I lie to myself all the time; I try to keep you out my mind and take comfort in your nothings. Though your nothings are more than my everything.

So if seeing is believing then staple my eyes shut.
Staple my eyes shut. Help me get out of this rut. I don't want to talk anymore. I just wan't to lie down for a while and sleep for a month.
(The face, the place, the everything. I remember everything. I'd like to get lost in these woods and sleep for a month.)