| We own our loneliness
|
| We scream at the stars
|
| Like gaping wounds
|
| Stinking up the emergency room
|
| Tar arteries from the heart of this city
|
| To the deeps of our greed
|
| We’re patients in waiting
|
| Our machines rust
|
| But lipstick stays behind
|
| On borrowed time we reinvent the divine
|
| A recycled infection
|
| I’ve grown immune to grace
|
| There’s just too much of it
|
| Going around these days
|
| We rent our vacant lives
|
| But we own our loneliness
|
| We punch at the stars
|
| Like drunken buffoons
|
| Thrashing through imaginary living rooms
|
| We surgically remove the heart of this city
|
| And polute the remains
|
| We’re patients in waiting
|
| Our machines rust
|
| But lipstick stays behind
|
| On borrowed time we reinvent the divine
|
| A recycled infection
|
| I’ve grown immune to grace
|
| There’s just too much of it
|
| Going around these days
|
| We rent our vacant lives
|
| But we own our loneliness
|
| I’ve grown immune to grace
|
| There’s just too much of it
|
| Going around these days
|
| We rent our vacant lives
|
| We own our loneliness
|
| We own our loneliness
|
| We ruin romance
|
| We yearn for acceptance
|
| But we own our loneliness |