Caterpillars in the cracks of my head
Fucked up but functioning fine
I’m still unsure if your dead
Still tell your jokes like their mine

Here in the Void, we’re scraping meaning
From our made up meta-beliefs like band-AIDS
Off the post-ironic blues we battle
Well, the funeral proved that I still can’t cry
The closest I get is little puddles in my eyes
And the eerie eulogy was the very best part it went, ‘oh well whatever’

So now I’ve started a cult, to validate faith
I write my own prayers now to my own set of saints
It keeps your feet in the curl, and at the very least
Grace makes your stay in this world much more comfortable
Here me now, Saint Dana, you’ve a lot of explaining to do
Without dreams right in front of your face
It seems you feel a lot more real than I do



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