More Than What Hurts
on the table next to him, there´s a bottle of vodka, untouched. it´s only purpose is to symbolize the man in him. the man that are difficult to see theese days.
his hands works at an office. his collegue is his silent computer. it is madness.
his fathers hands worked among mines, but time passes quickly and he is now in a home while the computers are made.
(but he is also mad, you might think)
they call it progress, and it´s a progress alright, but people are still dying. what kind of progress were they looking for?
the daughter of the man with the computer has to many thoughts than anyone can learn to deal with.
she writes down words like a maniac. they are in her head, and she´s afraid to loose them. she writes and writes and suddenly it is impossible to see what is written on the victims of her cullables.
then she is mad.
then everything is in vain.
then every single thought might as well die.
then she might as well die.
with insanity working through their heads.
I am insane
I have never refused to admit that
just taste the words as they lay there o, so tender on your tounge.
can you feel how it aches and twist your mind into something that it isn´t?
tell me, can you feel how it aches?
with insanity, none of us is hopeless,
with insanity, we are all equally dumb