People asking for donations in front of the station Someone takes one look at it and puffs on a cigarette I lean against the wall, exhaling smoke I mimic the yellowing of society Who called it "fraud"? Who refused to call it "sympathy"? I can't see clearly from where I'm not flying (It's not like I'm...)
I'm playing "special" with my dead eyes Sometimes I feel guilty, sometimes I feel hopeless. The word 'bond' hurts my ears, but in a corner of my head In the corner of my head, I keep something soft for myself, even today.
("Please turn off your cell phones in the priority seats.") The blaring sound leaking from my headphones drowns it out. At a level where we only need a yellow card I wonder how much time I spend unconscious.
"It's okay," some people assume. And those who shout, "You're bothering me." I don't know what's going on between those who are buried in overconfidence
