Electric President
Album - 23 gennaio 2006 - Debaser id 289673

Seems like the roads stretch out like veins, but there's no heart.
Nature's haircut is concrete now, and we played our part.
So we sing ...

I've lost my taste for modern things. They're not for me.
I want mundane: a quiet place, where time is free,
And I can sing ...

Crawled from my bed, to collect the thoughts that'd fallen from my head,
And you watched me sink, through the carpet, through the basement, and beyond.
And you didn't blink.

On the glass, I traced the sun with my thumb. It sank into the ground.
And then the stars were blinking, like kids who were staring into the wind.
So I climbed through the window and walked until I lost my name.
Now I can play the victim. It's fine. I've seen it on TV.
But if there's one thing I know, it's that I never really know enough.

Our heads, our hands, our brains, our lungs: they're just machines.
These hearts are all that we've got left, and they don't beat.

Live a little, talk a lot; it's the way this goes.
I've come to fear the little knives beneath their well-pressed clothes.
Their arms are reaching; reach is spreading through the neon glow.
Their mouths are moving, but their voices sound like telephones.
The traffic hums; the traffic grumbles near my old window.
The street lights flicker; glow and hover like suspended snow.
I used to watch the moon retreat and wonder where it goes.
Now I just wonder why my head is overrun with ghosts

There's a light bulb dangling from string
It's slowly swaying up over my head now
As I jot down the words that'll never be sung
And wait for my headache to numb
And the wind sounds as if the world's sighing
And the moon's just a torn fingernail
As the TV flickers and hums by the wall
And I wait for my eyesight to fade

So, So, So
It's so damn slow
So, So, So
It's so damn slow

And the bright-eyed choke on ambition
And the old folks circle their graves
And the young ones are busy destroying their names
And you're still just wasting away.
I sit and watch the screen for a message
Some kinda sign that says we're OK
But the screen stays blank till I turn the thing off
And wait for my conscience to break.

So, So, So
It's so damn slow
So, So, So
It's so damn slow

I hope you're learning to listen
And I hope you're learning to stay
And I hope you find what you're missing
And I hope that you're making you're way
I'm a headcase if I don't keep moving
And my head hurts if I don't sit still
It's an itch that I'll never stop scratching
It's a hole that I'll never quite fill

So

Footsteps echo through hallways.
Beneath the neon lighting, everyone looks sick.
We sit on a rusty staircase.
You write your name with lipstick on the rail near the wall.

What do you think about me now, that I've fallen down?

Watching the crowds on the sidewalks.
A steady hum of nothing is all that fills the air.
And we sit on a nearby rooftop.
It overflows with pigeons, and we idly scare them off.

But what do you think about me now, that I've fallen down?

Out in the fields the skies crack and peel.
While off in the distance the buildings collide.
And down in the grass is a sea of broken glass.
And remnants of lives that I used to label “mine.”

And I’ve lost my tongue and I’ve lost all my friends.
And I can’t remember if I give a damn.

We peek from the edge of an old rusty bridge.
Down in the water is the house where we were raised.
And over where the trees and gardens used to be.
Are remnants of pictures we still carry in our minds.

And you’ve lost your mind and you’ve lost all your plans.
And I can’t quite tell if you even give a damn.

The neighborhood is gone. The air reeks of smoke ash and cold.
Winter’s sleeping on our doorsteps.
As you hum your songs, the water turn to ice above our home.
So we go collect our paychecks and leave.

Up comes the sun to burn everyone.
And we pay the difference by peeling off our skin.
And as far as we can tell, it’s pretty cold in hell.
But you’ve got your sweaters,
So I’m sure you won’t mind.

But you’ve lost your heart. And you’ve lost all your will.
You’re shot full of holes, and what you hold always spills.

The city’s met its end. The monuments have all crashed and burned.
I doubt that we’ll miss them.
We walk through the woods, and neither of us looks back, not once.
There’s nothing behind us anymore.

It was all in our heads. It was all in our heads.
The sky was never falling; it was all in our heads.
So sleep well tonight. And dream some good things.
The sky was never falling. It was all a bad dream.