Epilogue: A sound off from simple people with simple theories.
Fucking up, but articulate, with a feeble grasp of arithmetic.
Fueled by false determination, and the final breath of a declining nation.
Where do you think that the remedy is? And why do you think it even exists?
This building is falling down.
Paradox: A nodding off from imploding circles with no direction.
Take a look in the fucking mirror, and ask yourself who the enemy is.
Last call at the gas pump. Last call at the water pump.
Who do you think are your fucking friends?
Who do you think are your fucking friends?