Like butterflies we fly to the source of light. In hope to reach dreams (like butterflies) we get burned alive.
There is only one path for us all, With just a little chance to turn off. The roads we walk along are parallel. This is illusion of freedom!
Your work, your home are like checkpoints in the race - Every day is a single lap!
And the black ribbon on your funeral portrait Will be the finish line
Your results on statistics screen show us: "You died alone and forgotten With nothing left (with nothing left behind) You've finished last, the race is over."