I've been wasting this fucking year on the idea of getting up and moving on, but I wait around, just emptying bottles in the basement of the slovak center on my side of town. It's a major fucking bummer. Because I feel nothing like my father. He's been sleeping underground. Don't wait around. There's nothing there at all. There's nothing but the end. You're not awake (Tell me, tell me the things that I'll never have). So I'll just stay home (I'm talking to you). You're not awake (Tell me, tell me the things that I'll never have). You're fucking gone.