Manhattan can go to hell, and so can Brooklyn too. Indie rock's a game we play, and we pretend it's true. But it's all fun and make believe, and stupid reindeer games. To see who's cool and cutting edge, but we're all the same.
If Isaac Brock don't give a damn, then tell me why should I. Everyone will let you down, and all your heroes lie. Oh well whatever never mind the dimming of the sky. Everything grows dark in death, even the brightest eyes.
I fear these fears are justified in every single way. And we're left to rationalize the meaning of each day. But if time's a tool that we use to measure our decay. Then all I know is we creep towards death with the passing of each day.
And if all these fears are justified in every single way. All I know of who I am falls apart every way. And if all these nights of make believe mean nothing in the end. May I learn how to believe in all that is pretend.
For nothing is all that I know, and nothing's all I see. And nothing is the only thing in which I can believe. For nothing is all that I know, and nothing's all I see. And nothing is the only thing in which I can believe.