They always want to see you working. They don't want to see you enjoying life. They just want to see you working, for some reason ... while they're smoking their fucking cigars.
It's not something they're too keen on themselves, of course. The real work that has to be done. (Oh, why does it have to be done? Because they say so.) They are not good people.
And the beautiful things aren't all that obvious to them, anyway. They recognize dirt, even appreciate it. They know death, yes, really savour it!
Look, their eyes! Their eyes. See their eyes, just full of dirt, and death. Windows of the soul, ha!
It's not something they're too keen on themselves, of course. The real work that has to be done. (Oh, why does it have to be done? Because they say so.) They are not good people.
And the beautiful things aren't all that obvious to them, anyway. They recognize dirt, even appreciate it. They know death, yes, really savour it!
Look, their eyes! Their eyes. See their eyes, just full of dirt, and death. Windows of the soul, ha!
