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lyrics
Scrape the cynical film from a toxic brain, give me something to fix unsteady hands.
Replace the out of order members of this tired body. Feed me the lines, script all the actions.
I’m still here but I’m tired of their hopeful words- i’m fighting to stay present.
But I'm gifting myself grief again and medicated comas. To pull the plug and allow this metal rust would be a messed up sort of holiday. It’d be a holiday.
I think what I'll give in the bathroom doubled over. Think of what I'll give just to crawl my way into uncertain hours.
What I’d give for some genuine attention. What I’d give for effective intervention.
It’s been terminal for how many years?
You keep hitting the floor just to find that there’s further to go. You keep meeting the eyes of your family and friends with regret, you hope it doesn’t show.
Dennis (guitarist/signer of the hideout) and his father in law Andy do weird fun folk and somehow convince other people to be part of it. As 2020 as it gets. The Hideout