|
Title: Siberian Breaks |
|
Artist: MGMT |
|
Album: Congatulations(2010) |
|
|
|
Sleep as the goer |
|
the bridge that watches the light speed through |
|
and cries while the spirit stumbles |
|
and inside missile for the protection of you |
|
|
|
maybe it's silent |
|
the voice can't bear anymore strain |
|
but speak without even knowing |
|
and streams outside in the direction of truth |
|
|
|
there's no reason there's no secret to decode |
|
if you can't save it, leave it dying on the road |
|
wide open arms can feel so cold |
|
so cold |
|
feel so cold |
|
|
|
balance the books, the ledges, the loons |
|
the disappointed look on the faces |
|
that squint at the moon |
|
let's see it with shadows enhance |
|
and then vote to decide who'll advance |
|
silver jet plane, making a turn |
|
exciting the brain that expects it to crash and then burn |
|
it's not the life lesson I'd've guessed |
|
if you're conscious you must be depressed |
|
or at least cynical |
|
but someone might still eat the steaks |
|
even if they're tough |
|
spending the day |
|
chewing the fat |
|
floating away isn't roguh but it's not enough |
|
oh marianne, pass me the joint |
|
the sandpaper's tan |
|
go-getters are surfing the point |
|
and london's a cratch on the lens |
|
it's over before it begins |
|
silk 'round her neck falls down to her shoulders |
|
the older I get, the more I suspect there's a trick |
|
but really there's no trip at all |
|
that doesn't result in a fall |
|
or a faltering |
|
but something might spit out the bait |
|
even if it's real |
|
rolling away |
|
missing a spoke |
|
close to the ground like a wheel but it's not a joke |
|
holding the line |
|
clutching the phone |
|
nobly wasting the night, but it isn't right |
|
it's not right |
|
smelling for blood |
|
praying for rain |
|
running away isn't rough, but it's not enough |
|
|
|
the low tide is telling me, when it's over, |
|
to breathe in everything exposed |
|
and comes back to cover me with a blanket |
|
being here's always changing tunes |
|
|
|
the empty sky surrounds me but i can't see at all |
|
wide open arms can feel so cold |
|
and you can sit beside me and tell me what it's worth |
|
but I hope I die before i get sold |
|
I hope I die before I get sold |
|
I'd rather die before I get sold |
|
|
|
if you find the soul that you lost |
|
frozen in a starry void |
|
take it within and hope the sight of blood |
|
can will signs of life to return |
|
back to the way that it was |
|
long before it made a noise |
|
to keep on quietly reminding you |
|
what's never created or destroyed |
|
|
|
wake as the swell peaks |
|
the close-outs drowning the birds with roars |
|
and howls scare the new unkindness |
|
that picks and laughs at the carrion scene |
|
|
|
forces you see breath can always go into hiding |
|
and wait 'til it passes over |
|
or stay far gone for all eternity |