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Lyrics
they have tools used, to make tools, to make tools
instruments with such... precision, perfection, precisely
for thousands of years we've known that we have no chance alone
we must build these thoughtless assistants to assist in assisting,
resisting, arresting...
i say this accusingly, one day we will no longer be necessary,
outgrown, outgrowing, outgrew, we always knew
i suspected all along that this would happen,
and now we remove ourselves from this useless form of physical limitations,
these tools will build everything, from the atom up
but they're doing it for us, of course,
we built them, always for us
always for us,
we rest assured in our self-assurance,
we are the cause
we are because
we are why
and yes
and always
but what for?
i'm scared of these stale streets, capillaries incapacitated,
shadows expanding, broken neon blinking, red gloves, two-dimensional buildings
will collapse, forgotten leaves, ice on my neck, water backwards, children painting
brown benches, lack of traffic, cold nose, eyes of the devil, bellevue avenue,
demons on wheels, but i killed them!
there were demons, but i killed them!
and there were demons, but i killed them!
i'm afraid of unconciousness,
in my dreams our heros become out nightmares and we become our heros
trying desperately not to fall asleep,
cling to every breath like oxygen is a commodity,
rip out forked tongues, spit out spiked words,
you don't belong here and i banish you into the buying and selling of modern diseases,
i banish you into the buying and selling of modern diseases.
sometimes when i ride the bus home late at night i'm scared of getting shot by someone,
or not even really "by someone" just getting shot,
like a bullet will just jump through my seat from behind and go through to my chest,
maybe fall in my lap, maybe stop in my ribcage, or in my heart,
it doesn't matter,
cause no one would notice
i would get off the bus, walk home, and go to sleep
and the next morning i wouldn't really remember,
or i would think it was just a dream,
i must have been dreaming,
of course, i was dreaming.
and then i'd forget all about it and just carry on with my life like it never happened,
but every once in a while there'll be a pain in my chest,
and i'll think it's just something i ate,
or a heart attack,
or some girl,
or nothing at all.
and one day doctors will tell me they found something with their x-ray machines,
"maybe you swallowed a coin," they'll say, "or a small key,"
and then they'll cut me open to get it out but
they won't find anything cause it never really happened,
i'm just scared that it might.
this is introduction through initiation,
invitations unwritten, brought down upon,
strike me down with a hammer, tear through thick layers of melted flesh,
a seperate skin growing on top of everything i've accumulated so far.
in my closet i have notes on old papers, twisted,
like the wrapping paper too pretty to throw away,
YOU are the wrapping paper and the box is EMPTY,
--not to imply that you are empty -or are in any other way connected,
there is just the box, a six-sided mirror perfectly contstructed,
mathematically flawless, and you, multiplied in the reflections,
waving frantically as you grow smaller and smaller,
reduced to memory, a blurred representation,
yellow on red inside the eyelids fading to echoes,
tugging at your face, pulling at your cheeks like a carnival ride,
you can get lost easily in those mirrored mazes,
frightened enough to break the glass
just to have a piece of your own reflection in your hand,
pierce the extra skin, or even gash it all open,
some people take comfort in their own blood.
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