There is no fun when you’ve become numb;
maybe the pain is gone, but so is all lifelong.
And there is no thrill when life is standing still;
maybe you won’t get rushed, but you won’t get to see much.

You can wash the pain away
with tobacco or chardonnay;
or you can just let yourself decay,
you’re picking a poison anyway.

Oh mother moon, tell me what I want
so in my guilty pleasures I can rot.
I wish to be loved and I wish to be forgot,
but the reason I seek this is an unfamiliar thought.

'Cause when I stand still I’m the only thing alive,
breathing in the dead and empty  with everything I hide.
Observing the past and future: regretting, regretting.
And don’t ask me what my problem is
because I’ve got plenty.