This isn't home to us, just an illusion thereof.
An illusion we love to play in,
eat in, sleep in.
And when it rains, it doesn't pour;
it is but ever dry.
When it's dry, all I do is die.
I die. I die. I die.
Only to live tomorrow and yet again
play, eat and sleep.
This isn't love, just an illusion thereof.
An illusion we love to pour in, die in
and live in again.