I tend to roam around the room corner to corner
Wondering how I got inside those mental quarters
Why don't I ask the man behind the glass border?
I'm strapped to a seat and they brought the coroner.

Finally I feel completely lost
When my brain gets heated and defrosts,
I'm lying on the ceiling of your room and I can't stop,
I die when I see how well you sleep, at 10 o' clock.

I want to leave reality.
Reality is not for me.

Look at me. I'm avant-garde. I write songs in two keys in one.
And I managed to stay high for 3 months once with no funds
And all it took me were some slightly matured lungs

I know better than to get excited about inspiration, these days.
Inspiration is a precursor to depression in multiple ways.
I molded a pistol out of my heart
And it was easy cause it's made out of clay

And a body that reacts to stress like burning malaria.
And a cerebral cortex with fucked Wernicke's area.
And a pair of eyes that'll stare at you just to build character

Every once in a while an odd feeling throws me to the floor
And I'm frozen but confusion isn't time dependent,
So I hate life and most of the time feel entirely disoriented.