The Bell Jar

To be common place would be unique, but we're so obscure we're incoherent, like toungeless vigilantes choking just to make you choke. Rattling, rattling. No nails to hold ideas in place, no expression on your face. Music and her patrons are dead and irrelevant, like osteoporosis, she is brittle. She is broken. Static comes through synthesizers, megaphones and drum machines. Beauty sounds like smashed guitars, and several references to feedback. Rattling, rattling. No surgery to save your life. No promise that everything's all right. Music and her patrons are dead and irrelevant, like osteoporosis, she is brittle. She is broken. Languages must be organic, because like flies they fall and die. Music now sleeps. Languages must be organic, because like flies they fall and die. Music now sleeps, with Latin and Aramaic. It's over, it's over. No more waiting for something to live for. It's over, it's over. Everything is dying and we want something more