Five years and not a moment gained, I'm no wiser. All of my friends are rusted out, Held together by masking tape, Such an appropriate thing, Kept in motion.
What of these figures we've made? Our fingers are stained, Charcoals and pastels that we want.
We'll hide our hands away, What of these figures we've made? Our hands are stained, What do they see anyways? Dressed up with paint, What's an appropriate thing? When I'm broken down, pulled along by strings of who I want to be, I know what I am. Who I want to be, I know what I am.