When the house is quiet,
When the nighttime has come,
I am bombarded by thoughts
Of the things that I've done

A scratch on the record,
A static on VHS,
A mind bitterly thinking
About a discombobulated mess

I'm utterly happy,
Or so I believe,
Although it may not come across,
It may not be perceived

These thoughts are like alcohol
Dousing the flame
Don't come any closer
I'm already close to insane