A house of one's is full of lungs,
It has no chairs, no walls.
There is no meaning, the time you're living,
There is no room for us.
There is time, there is time, but there's no future for us.
There's some space, there's some space, but there's no room for us.
No
No home
Motherlode
Motherlode, and it's done.
I've been married to the future for so many years
'Cause I only love things that cannot be real.
But I recognize I was better at being a kid,
Now my body screams and screams.
Promised Land was actually unsafety,
Corruptibility, crudity, faulty.
Not easy tricks nor meritocracy
Chronic life fatigue
Just wanna reach what I seek.
In my glorious isolation
I'm illuminated by the marvellous incandescence
Of my electrically charged nerves.
