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I don't feel a thing. I touch you and it feels like viscous rubber. I look at you and it feels like Hollywood. I hear your voice and the sound bounces back. I kiss you and your tongue
feels like drenched nylon. All so vaguely. Not feeling. Not feeling a thing smells like cod oil. I smell you and it's cod oil. I smell myself and it's cod oil. I smell the television and it's cod oil.

There is no voice in my head anymore.
I don't feel a thing. Maybe it's the food that I eat. Maybe it's a new disease. Maybe it's the cigarettes. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's the music. Maybe it's the books, Maybe it's the new century. Maybe it's the northern hemisphere. Maybe it's Chenobyl finally making it across the Atlantic. Maybe it's you.
I'll try to find out tonight.

I lost my innocene again last night. I saw a man sitting on the steps of the city hall. He was eating a slice of pizza, and when he reached for the coin I was about to give him I saw that his fingers were painted red. Now I know it was just some sauce, but last night I thought it was blood. Nothing happened. I gave him the coin, walked on, he kept eating and looking at the traffic. The thought that he had just killed someone crossed my mind, but I didn't feel a thing. Every scenario I considered made perfect sense, and I didn't feel a thing. Every scenario I am now considering makes perfect sense, and I don't feel a thing.

This must be the state of roughness that actors try to achieve when they put on the crisp-brimmed hat and the long soft raincoat and move and speak according to plan under a minimal set of dark blue lights. This must be it. And I know for a fact that actors will eventually leave that state. They will soften their eyes again. They will feel hunger again. They will plan things and strive towards them again. They will smile at you again. They will wallow in their whatever again. They will be consumed by their imagination's lions again. They will feel again.

But I won't. I don't want. Cod oil smells good after a while. Like breathing under an invisible sea. Identifying things as dead energy is better than not knowing what to make of them. It feels good. And I feel good. In fact, I feel so good I don't feel a thing.

Now I'm going to count my regrets
and smoke one million cigarettes
and watch what the night will bring
and I won't feel a single thing

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I don't feel a thing. I touch you and it feels like viscous rubber. I look at you and it feels like Hollywood. I hear your voice and the sound bounces back. I kiss you and your tongue
feels like drenched nylon. All so vaguely. Not feeling. Not feeling a thing smells like cod oil. I smell you and it's cod oil. I smell myself and it's cod oil. I smell the television and it's cod oil.

There is no voice in my head anymore.
I don't feel a thing. Maybe it's the food that I eat. Maybe it's a new disease. Maybe it's the cigarettes. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's the music. Maybe it's the books, Maybe it's the new century. Maybe it's the northern hemisphere. Maybe it's Chenobyl finally making it across the Atlantic. Maybe it's you.
I'll try to find out tonight.

I lost my innocene again last night. I saw a man sitting on the steps of the city hall. He was eating a slice of pizza, and when he reached for the coin I was about to give him I saw that his fingers were painted red. Now I know it was just some sauce, but last night I thought it was blood. Nothing happened. I gave him the coin, walked on, he kept eating and looking at the traffic. The thought that he had just killed someone crossed my mind, but I didn't feel a thing. Every scenario I considered made perfect sense, and I didn't feel a thing. Every scenario I am now considering makes perfect sense, and I don't feel a thing.

This must be the state of roughness that actors try to achieve when they put on the crisp-brimmed hat and the long soft raincoat and move and speak according to plan under a minimal set of dark blue lights. This must be it. And I know for a fact that actors will eventually leave that state. They will soften their eyes again. They will feel hunger again. They will plan things and strive towards them again. They will smile at you again. They will wallow in their whatever again. They will be consumed by their imagination's lions again. They will feel again.

But I won't. I don't want. Cod oil smells good after a while. Like breathing under an invisible sea. Identifying things as dead energy is better than not knowing what to make of them. It feels good. And I feel good. In fact, I feel so good I don't feel a thing.

Now I'm going to count my regrets
and smoke one million cigarettes
and watch what the night will bring
and I won't feel a single thing

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