It was somwhere around Sheffield where my conscious concedes. Fiction halts, the d** began to wear
thin. Colored obvious, the world slid off it's tilt. Waking up each night, from the gravitational pull.
What is the sound of something trying not to make a sound? So sick of all the same old sh**, so spent on
being sick. Will everybody wake up before it gets too late? Ghost wrote in the middle of the night,
chocking and abvious. Will everybody wake up before it gets too late? Always afraid, afraid of what the
truth may bring. The last horse has finally crossed the finish line. Long and clever titles doesn't bring
a clever song. This show has been going down hill since season one. Just an open book reading itself to
sleep...So sick of all the same old sh**, so spent on being sick. Will everybody wake up (wake up, wakeup)
before it gets too late? Undone in the middle of the night, strinkingly obvious. Will everybody wake
up (wake up, wake up) before it gets too late? So sick of all the same old sh**, so spent on being sick.
Will everybody wake up (wake up, wake up) before it gets too late? So tired...so tired...Will everybody
wake up (wake up, wake up) before it gets too late?