The Belle Epoque

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Vold Book

6:50

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We're heading south for the opera. Got to get my opera drama
We're heading south for the opera. Hope to sell my story glory
Electroliers, and pricey boutique harbored fears confront the night
With washed-up lilting stalagmites. Black velvet sky, go unnoticed before old eyes
Twilight states of the moon and her silent seasons
We're heading south for that old show where absolutely all must go
We're heading south for the old show; everything must go tonight
I should have known by now that there was no answer
I should have known by now that there is no purpose
Everything that I stand for is without meaning
I hope the critics will love me and be my friend
The opera is tragic, but not in that way
Everyone gets twisted and burned like flash paper
Think back to all the things I've said, now forget them
Just forget I was here at all, and I will too
Maybe the kids will find a better way to occupy their time than I have done
I cannot remember where I parked our carriage, oh well whatever nevermind
This is what we came for so let's get our money's worth and be happy
City lights are tedious with inappropriate references
And meaningless metaphors that are not allowed to have meaning
We're heading south for the show. We're heading south for the show
We're heading south for the show. Hope to sell opera tonight
Maybe the north is where we should have gone instead
I'm not digging the vibes of these crooked people. What city are we in tonight?
I don't even know if up is right or if down is upside-down
The nouveau-riche under gaslight, hunting for the lost pyramid
Offshore casino skull candle. Showing tourists Le Moulin
Love is in my heart with you in eternity, getting rye whiskey drinks for the equilibrist
I will return to my own piece of prison stone, located within backyard hemisphere radome
Unexplainable lights are flashing and blind me. I cannot think to write an important statement
About mediocrity and vampire waste; the flowers and the vines have dried up in the drought
As smoke is proof of fire won't you listen to the gold cigars in the cabinet
Crabochon barometers of Marshalsea crouch in the damp night of ravenswood
If I gave you the moon would you come back to the place where we were on one
Pages have turned beyond what we both expected to happen at this point
We are now lost in oblivion at the good opera
Me and my true love will never grow old, because we are preserved by the collective atmosphere
Of old age clinging on to whatever we can. I don't want to confront my mortality tonight
Or any night for that matter. We have become what we wanted to become
Just don't look in the mirror at yourself. Listen to my desires: where is the red exit sign?
I cannot believe that we were forsaken. We are everything that God could want in people
Gathering by nothing, they must have seen another ghost in the room
Aimless wandering around the parking lot tonight

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