In the shadows of back alley body shops,
Artificial limbs next to artificial pleasures,
There floats, in a transparent cubicle,
your gaze of a better tomorrow.
Fiending for a meaning as we're meeting up top,
Ignoring my recording,
Reconfirming your nonchalance.
I know you've heard it all,
Shakespeare whispers, it's all the same.
So let our silence play the game
As my sins carry your name.