I try to be an individual, spiritual, miniscule.
But secretly bigger than life itself.
Taken every single tool off the dustry shelf,
Recreate heroes and honor the timeless.
Reincarnated, domesticated, harmless,
That is until unleashed, released.
For the good of the race, such a slow pace.
It will kill us indeed, reached doom.
In amazing speed, could have reached the end
with some slight slack to spare.
But no, that's impossible, not considerable.
So lets make the most money off our doom,
and damn the damned.
Keep blaming the blamed.
Fuck the innocents, put their head to the flame.
There is nothing to die for,
nothing left to live for.
So what is left to exist for?
Can we fix it, remake it, upgrade and sell it?
We might not need to fight.
But money is money
and it tastes sweeter than honey.
The power paper can give us is a sickening feeling.
Respect, honor, honesty, left with no meaning.
They were gone at the feeding.
Of the demons with no names,
loyalty to the everlasting flames.
Society struggles with advanced problems.
But there is nothing too advanced about tolerance.
So how advanced can we possibly be?
*OBEY: ANDRA FISCHER
