Tekstovi: Funeral. Our Captain.

Culture whispers in my ear, and I've played that game for far too long. Every action I take, every time I wake, it's there. Is existance trivial and plain? The day-to-day routine is all the same. Life boils down to never ending routine, all wrapped around the finger of someone else's dreams. And where do we draw the line? After it's been drawn for us, corrupted, and entrapped us? It all feels OK to jump in the fire, and waive the right to live our lives. All hope's lost for all hope's worth. We've given up and still pretend to care. All the while awake in our own nightmares