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Our limits of the infinite have never been defined |
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Spirit lies in atrophy in a state too late to unwind |
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Trophies on the back shelf procreating all our race |
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Ideals of our fantasies on which all things are based |
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Collecting every prospect, run them through your texts |
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With Mallachian expressions they end up like the rest |
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In glass booths they're wired with needles in their flesh |
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Pickled for posterity and eternally refreshed |
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So link yourself to others, talk yourself to sleep |
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It's all so superficial, no use for you to weep |
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No use for you to weep, no use for you to weep |
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No use for you to weep, no use for you to weep |
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No use for you to weep, no use for you to weep |
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So place your trust in science for it has come so far |
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Where necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar |
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Where necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar |
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Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar |
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Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar |
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Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar |
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Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar |
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Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar |
