I barely remember my instincts, my home,
a golden age of my own.
On a concrete ground I watch the weather change,
things we should never derange.
I see beauty in dying flowers.
I find bliss in acid rain.
These days it all seems so mundane.
Everyone is wired to a dying tree.
Everyone is connected to the sea.
On my plastic floor I just can't seem to get
it's all perfectly coherent.
Everyone is wired to a dying tree.
Everyone is connected to the sea.
Radio waves radiation in the air we breathe
Everyone is choking on our frequencies