To us, with exquisite cynicism
They sell an ersatz of a dream
Only a myth about a sweet life
Won't fill up the emptiness
We'll walk out of home
Out of hopeless
Depression
Oh how long ago
For us, it was
So fun
In happiness there are no strict proportions
The ideal is getting sleepy
In a black puddle, a dead calm of emotions
And in the chest, a Ninth Wave*
We'll walk out of home
Out of hopeless
Depression
Oh how long ago
For us, it was
So fun