Rotting/Orchestra

While I spit in your claims
You dance with that bow right above
That music not so different from the chains
Both phones connecting me to myself
Alone

So you're running right to here
Knowing you'll die in a hundred psycho(delic) ways
In my mind, until you arrive
Even so

Hair it grows so fast in those months of nazi ropes
Swinging around us and the strange looks in our direction
Dreaming, not damaging
Fall in love with every stranger for a day

The drama cannot rust, however
Without a fake, none can be achieved
Fake, where does it come from?
People as fake as flowers that lose their petals