Superficial fiction, that is what we lived in.
Walking home, stumbling in the wind.
We didn't care about our insides back then, just where we would reside every night.
Pouring it up, swallowing pills till those feelings that we had became ill will.
Fresh twenty-one meant only having fun.
There we were all best friends, craving immortality so that it'd never end.
Dressing in black to become the night, it's any wonder that we didn't die.
Hanging on to everything we knew, pearls on a string there were only few.
Crying in the car just before the dawn, I was moon meditating in the front lawn trying to find nirvana in where it all went wrong.
Three years later, we're still on the mend.
I still think about it when I fall into bed.
It's particularly hilarious, those realities of life
In between those moments of high.
