Sound the horns and hit the crashes End this watch and unearth this, unearth this dead man Don't lock the gates under the arch Head stones, the perfect
I cut my fingers on a broken picture frame The welling up waxes and wanes. It's not fair and it hasn't been All my friends are living saints. Been killing
Introspection, fabricated. Pretend to hate it, pretend to hate it all The attention, it's not a bad thing. Pretend to hate it all When you first walked