Tekster: Titus Andronicus. No Future Part I.

Just give me a suitcase and I'll promise to not look back. Just point me, point me towards the railroad track. I've been staring at the gates, but I've never found a crack, so I'm just looking up, saying, "Deliver me a heart attack." If you're weary, I don't mind sharing the load, just keep me some company on the road. All I've got is a bottle that I ought to leave alone, but it's the only thing that I can call my own, so I'm saying goodbye, and no, I won't forget to write. It's just been too long racing towards a yellow light, and I know that I say this every night, but I don't think I've ever been so tired of life.
And if things should not get better, would you wait for me to change, or would I see you waving goodbye from the window of an aeroplane? If I told you it was hopeless, would you try to understand, or would you leave me for a palm tree and its shadow on the sand? Because I've been waiting all year for the temperature to drop, but now I've got a fever and I don't know how to make it stop. There's still one shoe that hasn't dropped yet. It's hanging on by an aglete. This world seems like a nice place to visit, but I don't want to live in it.

There is not a doctor that can diagnose me. I am dying slowly from Patrick Stickles Disease. There is not a medication that can cure what's ailing me. The only treatment they offer is to hang me from a tree. Life's been a long, sick game of "Would You Rather, so now I'm going to medical school... as a cadaver. Now if I could say only one thing with the whole world listening, it would be, "Leave me the fuck alone... or welcome to the Terrordome."