Its fire, its light. Up like a screen and very well - so you can go to sleep or you can go to hell.
But its all just type. Underneath the moon calling me a cunt, now which son a bitch is leading this witch hunt, friends?
And now we're drowned in piles, fingertips at me; your little knives passing through me all of the time.
And we're bound by twine. The stones in my coat, the look in your eyes - we're not going anywhere else tonight.
The corner of the party, acting like we're shy.
Tried to run away but we didn't know why,
and now we're right on time to stay up all night.
I could take it down, maybe in your room,
but I won't be around when it gets too cruel and thats alright,
its always just what happens half the time.
And they put up no fight, voices floating out of an empty well - so we can go to sleep then we can go to hell.
But I pay no mind, get into your car and take a drive, information super highway suicide.

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