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Bright Eyes lyrics : "Waste Of Paint"

I have a friend, he is made mostly of pain.
He wakes up, drives to work, and straight back home again.
He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper.

I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him that he had a sense
Of color and composition so magnificent.

And he said "Thank you, please...
But your flattery is truly not becoming me.
Your eyes are poor, You're blind, you see

No beauty could have come from me.
I am a waste...of breath...of space...of time."


I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
And Her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied

And decided the rest of her life from that point on would be a
lie. But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next.

But then she wept, what did you expect?
In that big, old house with all those cars she kept.
"And such is life," she often said,

"With one day leading to the next,
You get a little closer to your death."
Which was fine with her, she never got upset

And with all the days she may have left
She would never clean another mess
Or fold his shirts or look her best.

She was free...to waste...away...alone.

Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove.

And this cop pulled him off to the side of the road.
And he said, "Officer! Officer! You got the wrong man.
No, no, I'm a student of medicine, a son of a banker...you don't

understand!"
The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful.
And you carelessness, it is something awful.

And no, I can't just let you go.
And though your father's name is known,
Your decisions now are yours alone.

You are nothing but a stepping stone
On a path...to debt...to loss...to shame."


The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind who buy everything in doubles.
Oh, they fit together like a puzzle.

I love their love and I am thankful
That someone actually receives the prize that was promised
By all those fairy tales that drugged us.

And they still do me.
I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually?

Like love is some kind of lottery
Where you can scratch and see what's underneath.
It's "Sorry", just one cherry, or "Play Again."

Get lucky.

So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot.

No, I don't ride. I just sit and watch the people...there.
They remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.

And I want to scream out that "It all is nonsense!"
"Are your lives one track?" and "Can't you see how it's
pointless?"

But just then, my knees give under me, my head feels weak
And suddenly it's clear to see it's not them but me
Who's lost my self-identity, as I hide behind these books I

read
While scribbling my poetry, like art could save a wretch like me
With some ideal ideology that no one could hope to achieve.

And I am never real, it's just a sketch in me
And everything I made is trite and cheap
And a waste...of paint...of tape...of time.


So now I park my car down by the cathedral
Where floodlights point up at the steeples.

Choir practice was filling up with people.
I could hear the sound escaping as an echo,
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there's some room still in the middle.

But when I lift my voice up now to reach them,
The range is too high way up in heaven.
And so I hold my tongue, forget the song, tie my shoe, start
walking off
And try to just keep moving on with my broken heart and my

absent God
And I have no faith but it's all I want:
To be loved...and believe...in my soul
In my soul
In my soul

In my soul

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