We make too much of nothing, and it spins too fast and out of control
This never ending up and down and roundabout
The centrifuge of vanity and insanity, a vortex of rambling discourse
We fake too much of everything, and it wins us nothing more than the fall
A touching tribute to our own shortcomings
The false bottom of our heart, laid bare and decorated with bones
And probably no one knows this better than you
And probably no one cares less about it than me
It's as if the entire world were still spinning out from that last Big Bang
And wouldn't it be something?
All the matter in the universe still moving on that first, unchanged course?
There's nothing you can do about any of it
Just hold on tight and enjoy the ride
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