So, what's next?
Who's that thirty year old guy standing in front of the mirror?
Where is the perfect life he expected?
With his perfect wife and children?
Inquisition always comes during the summer
Like the moment that the sun and moon never set
Like two lovers turning around each other's worlds
And what about all those people
Who think they live in the middle of the little ponies?
They think by not talking about their problems
That their problems don't even exist. that's bullshit
I didn't expect to be the odd man, but I always was... in your eyes
So many people call themselves artists
Fashion is an art but art isn't fashionable
A pretty face is not enough
Making money and fucking are not the recipe
And even if I don't have it, at least I can look myself in the mirror
So many people call themselves artists
So, what's next?
Public humiliation? a burning witch?
How many painkillers will we take?
This is happening