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Here in this collapsed lung of a borough There is no sunlight The sunlight is manufactured in a windowless room Distant and incoherent businessmen hang themselves The lower side is a jukebox playing the deadman's crescendo The needle is a vector An intersection that we all must cross A dimly lit hallway where shadows of moths decorate the walls Discard this message, discard this message, discard this message Crumpled paper, crushed tin cans, broken bottles paper scraps, we're all the same, we're all the same, paper scraps We're all the same, we're all the same And in a short time Your never the same again The distance is streamlined Between decision and....
