Besedila:
Receiving End Of Sirens The Between The Heart And The Synapse

prosthetic limbs and mannequins. They're all perfect models of imperfection, With marrow made of cellophane. Strap on your ballroom best. Breathe in and

cast me in stride. (One hoped they'd break the mold.) Just a simple steel specimen, truly empty down inside. With copper-core wound veins, a pumping cold hydraulic heart

information. You can run, you can hide, But light will find a way And wither away Haunted and haunting, we all are followed By shadows from martyrs and

my neck. But her wrist felt just like rope As they grazed my neck, And her fingers, like spiders, spun a web my body couldn't shed. And on the eve of

Men are waiting patiently; Remove me from the scene, A sea of faceless souls in suits. A sight for eyes, like thumbs; Sore, crooked, and bow and foul

lungs insist on heavy breathing And the conductor is conducting electrical time signatures And I fall into rhythm. My life is a rhythm And my feet will