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I have sealed myself in
Laminated all of my skin
Cellotaped my world in bits
I must embrace paralysis
Only in you do we see ourselves
Only in you can we imagine an end
So sick and so tired of being for real
Only the fiction still has the appeal
Builder of routines
It makes me safe and clean
It crucifies parts of me
But never seems to make me bleed
Only in you do we see ourselves
Only in you can we imagine an end
So sick and so tired of being for real
Only the fiction still has the appeal
How I hate middle age
In between acceptance and rage
Democracy sure made a fool out of me
But I am the builder of routines
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