Caterpillars in the cracks of my head

Fucked up but functioning fine

I'm still unsure if your dead

Still tell your jokes like their mine

Here in the Void, we're scraping meaning from our made up meta-beliefs like band-aids off the post-ironic blues we battle

Well, the funeral proved that I still can't cry

The closest I get is little puddles in my eyes

And the eerie eulogy was the very best part it went, 'oh well whatever'

So now I've started a cult, to validate faith

I write my own prayers now to my own set of saints

It keeps your feet in the curl, and at the very least, grace makes your stay in this world much more comfortable

Here me now, Saint Dana, you've a lot of explaining to do

Without dreams right in front of your face it seems you feel a lot more real than I do