We stole apples from the market when I tried to walk you home.
I was drunk and it was raining but at least we weren't alone.
And you left early in the morning; I sat barefoot on your bedroom floor.
Writing songs in major keys about how much you mean to me.
I’ve tripped and stumbled to my nearest mental health professional.
He said "stop doing every single thing you're doing".
I guess I'm hooked on death as well.
All I need is a little spark, atlas and some time in the dark.
I'll map out the next six months. You get the whiskey, I'll get the gun.
And I wish we were born one hundred years ago.
Before these neon distractions blocked every single fucking road.
And I'll keep ripping off the boss, and I'll keep stealing other people’s songs.
Because music it means nothing when it can be bought and sold.
And you stopped working for the taxman because you were good like that.
I stopped working altogether, trying to find the reasons for my panic attacks.
All of a sudden people listen, the first time in five years.
“You're living the dream” they tell me. I'm living on the brink of tears.
But nothing that can't be suppressed by a little blood, sweat and beers.
And I hope we die one hundred years from now.
Sitting high up on a rooftop while the world keeps spinning around.
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