This is not love.
This is not even worth a point of view.
In Echo park I
pause for effect and whisper “who are you?”
They crawl out of their holes for me,
and I die: you die.
Hear them laugh, watch them turn on me.
And I die: you die.
See my scars, they call me such things.
Tear me, tear me, tear me.
But I have your names,
screaming “you will suffer” and “you’re all too late.”
Now I feel young.
Does everything stop when the old dame fails?
They crawl out of their holes for me,
And I die: you die.
Hear them laugh, watch them turn on me.
And I die: you die.
See my scars, they call me such things.
Tear me, tear me, tear me.
But I’m still frightened by the telephone.