If I was young, I'd flee this town
I'd bury my dreams underground
As did I, we drink to die, we drink tonight

But when the night is over and the walls keep linking
when fire starts to matter and the clock keeps sinking
clichés and other chatter keeps our minds from thinking

But when the night is over and the walls start burning
when fire starts to matter and the clock is churning
clichés and other chatter keeps our minds from learning

I'm a 21st Century Digital Boy
I don't know how to live,
but I've got a lot of toys

I dream. I dream I'm floating on the surface of my own life.
Watching it unfold. Observing it. I'm the outsider looking in.

I was brain-dead, locked out, numb, not up to speed
I thought I'd pegged you an idiot's dream
Tunnel vision from the outsider's screen

Whatever happened to protesting nothing in particular, just
protesting cause it's Saturday and there's nothing else to do

Whatever happened to revolution for the hell of it?

If what I'm saying doesn't make any sense,
that's because sense can not be made
It's something that must be sensed

I want a floating, shifting, ever changing persona:
Invisibility and obscurity,
detachment from the ego and all of it's pursuits