Nothing is consistent; everything is always running away. Cold and tired in the streets. Lonely and full of greed in the office, feeling empty, in your own alcohol.
Too many regrets, to count on one hand. Too many thoughts to repress into the back of your mind. Never enough time, to breathe in. Never enough time to explain.
Always losing air, just before reaching the surface. There's always someone you gotta put the blame on. But in the end, it's your own burden that you gotta carry, it's your own shitstorm, you gotta fight with fire.
The Gulf of Mexico, filled with oil and your head is about to go up in flames. Tearing down the walls, burning the old photographs. I'd hate for things to have to end like this.
In the end, we're all in this alone, just you're broken teeth and your old bones.