|
Your star sign and your calendar |
|
show exactly that you're on top |
|
but you're not |
|
The quieter your days are |
|
the more you know that this is not how it should be |
|
And forty million different stories |
|
each of those could curse a lie |
|
Tradin' stickers at the front porch |
|
could have been your first resistance |
|
It happened while you spent your days at home |
|
And still you force yourself to go to places |
|
that you think you belong, but you're wrong |
|
The pressure and the preferences, it's been a while |
|
since you read those parts in those books |
|
Where everyone tried to exhaust it |
|
as if these efforts made a difference |
|
The awful thought of not returning |
|
escorted summer holidays |
|
It happened while you were away, |
|
and your bed was so perfectly made. |
|
On the terrace they send you to see |
|
all the guys that would party with me |
|
In this fortress that they call a house, |
|
and its doorsteps were tumbling down |
|
and its back door that always was shut |
|
protect white paint from down to the top |
|
So what happened to you and your friends |
|
with the cigarette stains on their hands |
|
and the pale girl we met at the bar |
|
that I always adored from afar. |
