Bar politicians and hobo drawers
This town smells like bad history
Oh mother cancer you're growing on me
You're my favorite stock holmes disease

Everything was a breeze, when the earth was spinning for me
Till the coriolis changed its pace, and the horizon seemed constant
Never to be touched by me
Something to reach for, but never to see

Spare me your sympathetic tendencies
I'm sick of replacing me with please
And acting like every want is a need
When happiness is just a mirage
Good thing I don't have a car
Because I'm using that garage to store all my old memories

A box full of unanswerables stacked up on top of my anxiety
On top of the box full of the blood and tears I bleed
And the forgotten hypocrisies under my apocryphal tendencies
Next to the karaoke machine that screams infidelity
How far back do I need to hide those suppressed memories for them to never surface again
What's the point if the boxes are transparent?