Digging deep down in the vaults, Grabbing on to anything that holds, Any nerve thats still alive down there. Reach your hand into the hole, Come up with broken bits of the proof you're looking for, That you were ever anywhere at all. Your '79s, the innicence of simpler times, You can't have them back, But could you build this room from scratch if you tried? Close your eyes, cross over to the other side. Can you bring him back to life? Recreate Initial State? I remember everything, and i want the fixtures back. If I can shut out everything i know, I'd trade it all - to conjure one morning of life. When all was happy oblivion and nothing was your problem yet. You know - you can't have it all But down in the hole - you can lose yourself in shadow worlds. What you resist persists and what you look at disappears. Then what is this you're fighting? Ther's only smoke and mirrors here. You're all alone - in a long dead broken home. Staring down the boy lost in a mignight move so many lives ago.
In a living room encased in formaldehyde, The body floats, stares right back into your eyes And he says: "Sir can't you take me with you? I've been here all these years. There's nothing tactile in this room." He says: " Sir please take me with you I am your missing proof. We'll take the other side And bomb it all back to the womb."
Close your eyes Crawl inside All your spell can't bring him back to life.
[This is a song about the pornography of nostalgia, and the cold comforts of surrounding oneself with objects from less fragmented times in the place of reinstated innocence, or proof of life. Objects are tangible, tactile, may still be retrieved from memory as it threatens to blink out, and possibly even regained physically, but these are only incidental fixtures - placebos for lost time, lost people, and lost selves that you can never be again.]Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
