I have these accidents, these mistakes, these self-inflicted wounds, and then I tear my head to shreds about it for days.

Trying to impress my mother with words was one of my favourite pursuits.

Might be a quarter life crisis, just disturbin' in my soul.

She's perfect, so flawless, I'm not impressed.

Tore up my heart and shut it down. Nothing to do, nowhere to be. A simple little kind of free. Nothing to do, no one but me, and that's all I need. I'm perfectly lonely.

Everybody enjoys arguing about the current state of music because it feels as if you are talking about something incredibly important, yet it requires little understanding of the subject matter at hand. It's like world politics meets the pink questions in Trivial Pursuit. Points are made but nothing gets accomplished.

Everybody is just a stranger, but that's the danger in going my own way.