letra de welcome paradox - blueline medic
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cursing crimson walls, a thousand
or so souls on the floor shouldering away through strobe and intoxicated,
having berated himself in the hall and not for the last time.
there’s never a last time.
he’s waiting again for the inevitable flash of recognition.
yelling in casual tones, i’ll just go and say h-llo.
strange things these obligations.
strange things these invitations.
its never the last time, is it?
from what can you take your leave
if the sense have been smashed to smithereens?
h-ll have to cop this sweet,
although there is nothing sweet about it . . .
nothing at all.
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