There is this
I don't know, there is something in the air
There is dust on our hands, ther is dirt in our hair

And we're cold
So cold


We don't ask ourselves if it's right or wrong
We just play along
We only wish we were strong

But we're old
So old
A way to find you out of here

What was that?
I don't know, I guess
Somebody killed a dream, somebody found the mess

In their head
Their head
Smashed your head against the wall

Lost control
You're no machine after all
You are dead

So dead

All the words, all the words are grey

Just like solitary birds
In the night
And we can't, can't take everything back

We can't turn all this black
Into white


There is blood on the news, there is blood in your dreams
There is something so sad about your $#&@ed up esteem
And we cry

Oh, we cry
From the newboen, today, to the dead in the grave
The remote sets you free but you're still just a slave

Why?
Oh, why