The sloppy rain slips and slides down the fogged-up windows,
and this lets me know that I am not as small as I think I am.
In a city of three million plus, I feel like the soul of a nation,
even though I'm just a twenty-one year-old piece of plastic, drinking a hipster beer.

The waitress has frizzy hair and oily skin.
She's holding in late-night infomercials and missed ballet recitals, behind her words.
She looks at my luggage and asks where I came from or where I'm going,
and I tell her that the fun thing is that I have no idea where I'm going --
and that I still haven't decided where I've came from.

This city allows new-found anonymity, and I want that to be my cause.
With each passing glance, I know they don't see me, and, to me, that's the slumber-kissed throat-slit I've always dreamt of...

...the streets play music that I only hear -- and I know that's not fair, but I don't care.

And the homeless represent the bowels of the city.
And the businessmen are the ghost-filled engine.
And the middle class is the defense-mechanism I always wanted for Christmas.
And I am the empty delusion, desperately seeking a new pollution.

Why is the world so complicated,
So populated.
Whoever you are, you're hated.
Trust has already faded.
People acting,
Reality, just backstabbing.
I'm just asking,
To remove that masking.
Your true colours are contrasting.
Throw countless insults at me,
That's if you're free,
Point my flaws and I'd agree
Try and see.
You ain't perfect too.
Here's a clue,
Something about you.
Your imperfection is true.
Step aside and do something new.

Sometimes I wonder,
Why do I have to encounter,
Things that fill my life with thunder