Submit yourself; let yourself drown, waterboard your own head in your own toilet, be your own torturer,
be your own victim. Strangle your own throat. Suffocate. Suffocate.
Blindfold yourself and cover your had with a plastic bag.
Suffer, suffer, suffer.
Watch the wall, watch the white wall closely, concentrate. Then take the jump.
There is nothing else but the emptiness inside. The colourless void.
With sharp needles embroider your face, the hush-puppy-like dripping skin of your chicks.
With a scalpel embroider the tender skin of your white, white breasts,
which age and gravity have not yet damaged their fullness and beauty.
In fool moon nights you want to wander around the canals,
to go to the seashore when it storms
and howl with the water.
But no - the void prohibits every and each movement.
Sitting in your protected home on the couch, your think about letting yourself break against the rocks. Throw yourself against the rocks, over and over again.
Knowing that death will not be there to free you, that the longing cannot be stopped.
The bondages of your own soul, paralysed by your own longing - no place to go to.
Suffocated.
You know that life is sacred - but you have no rituals.
You clean your kitchen, you fold the clean laundry. You put it back in the closets,
waiting for it to get dirty again.
be your own victim. Strangle your own throat. Suffocate. Suffocate.
Blindfold yourself and cover your had with a plastic bag.
Suffer, suffer, suffer.
Watch the wall, watch the white wall closely, concentrate. Then take the jump.
There is nothing else but the emptiness inside. The colourless void.
With sharp needles embroider your face, the hush-puppy-like dripping skin of your chicks.
With a scalpel embroider the tender skin of your white, white breasts,
which age and gravity have not yet damaged their fullness and beauty.
In fool moon nights you want to wander around the canals,
to go to the seashore when it storms
and howl with the water.
But no - the void prohibits every and each movement.
Sitting in your protected home on the couch, your think about letting yourself break against the rocks. Throw yourself against the rocks, over and over again.
Knowing that death will not be there to free you, that the longing cannot be stopped.
The bondages of your own soul, paralysed by your own longing - no place to go to.
Suffocated.
You know that life is sacred - but you have no rituals.
You clean your kitchen, you fold the clean laundry. You put it back in the closets,
waiting for it to get dirty again.