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Catch a Fucking Unicorn

Make a market place to exchange the time in our day.
Such covetous trade will teach us to plan better
or work towards the timely decay of resonant waves
who's careless embrace left us under the weather without a way not to be over looked or looked over.
Claim and bottle the air we need and we'll pay to breathe, we'll pay to sing.
Tax the diaphragm harder 'til it's too expensive to scream.
We'll tear at the seams, you won't feel a thing,
but we'll set our sights farther to find a way not to be over looked or looked over.

Static fulfills better than pills,
so we make love to an image that thrills and there's no heart at the heart of the social life.
It's so fucked up. The silence builds meaningless stills.
They replicate, diagraming the kill by showing us who to blame when we die inside... and who to trust.
This under-stimulation numbs physical sensation until we can't feel the ground underneath our feet
and we repeat what's learned through repetition by bodies so conditioned to repress, to accept, to assimilate,
to carry on based on routine alone when your skin feels structured by hollow bones.
To ingest, to regress, to extrapolate childhood dreams, setting a comfort zone when your corpse feels more like a broken home.
Now we've got to get the fuck out of this place before the escalating murder rate reaches speeds any faster than we can run...
'cause when we run, we run like blood.

The change in pressure lends the feeling something's wrong... feel the life leave tired arms...
feel resistance rising from this empty space. Whatever happened to the acoustic age, to our sense of community?
So feign interest and raise a torch for everything that you will miss,
because at the end of all this there's not the silence you'd expect,
there's not the freedom you'd expect, there's not the life that you'd expect.