| Lyrics |
Air currents grind, monotony.
Image defined, static scene.
Adherents bent opinionlessfollowing scent of commoness.
Fit the latest rage,whatever stains the page.
Then fears allayed,of lonely shade.
Wheels, they grind...industry.
Insipid finds, out of key.
Opinions bent toward standard waves,bleaching out divergent shades.
Mock integrity.
Veiled hypocrisy.
Ironic finds,when selves descried.
Ban expressiveness.
Bold repressivenessdictated by minds closed tightand walls that shut out light,and so we have static acts.
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