I watch them sit and watch it happening

I'm self-inflicting, then self-medicating

As if recession is soothing

And I can't feel their sad glances or shammed attempts at sympathy

The hand on my arm, the pitying eyes, but I know they're still whispering about me

Whispering about my cracked mask of happiness, I'm only hiding apathy

I'm unashamed.

Debauchery is a game I play

A cavalcade of my own stupidity, it promenades proudly in offensive exposure

Always on the crest of tomorrow, stored up inside the empties to last me till eternity

What I've chosen, what I've got and I know how to deal

To me it's the last thing left that's real

Damage and pain and corruption, undistracted, I can still feel… something

It's flashy pretty pirouettes in a dance that I do with the idea of death

A carnival with a broken Ferris wheel, dangling high and proud on the seventeenth story

With sparks exploding in a shower of glory

The lines are thin and thinner, snapping

But no one's left in the car and empty space doesn't matter

There's no matter to make it matter

No mass of matter, no form of the latter

So the imminent crash is just shiny cheap flash

A buck-a-pop thrill in a gumball machine

There's nothing to kill, there's nothing to grasp

To numb the fact that I'm still slowly dying.