(no subject)
What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is.
PEOPLE ARE FOOLS.
THINKING THEY KNOW WHATS BEST.
FOR THEMSELVES AND EVERYONE ELSE.
I leave this world, with bitter hate.
I dont see them at all.
In this life, I have no friends, I have no foes. Just blank faces who laugh and talk to me, believing me, thinking I'm there when I'm really not.
IdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistendonttalktomeIcanthearyouIwonthearyou
donttalktomeIcanthearyouIwonthearyou
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is.
PEOPLE ARE FOOLS.
THINKING THEY KNOW WHATS BEST.
FOR THEMSELVES AND EVERYONE ELSE.
I leave this world, with bitter hate.
I dont see them at all.
In this life, I have no friends, I have no foes. Just blank faces who laugh and talk to me, believing me, thinking I'm there when I'm really not.
IdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistenIdontlistendonttalktomeIcanthearyouIwonthearyou
donttalktomeIcanthearyouIwonthearyou