Текст: Jarrod Gorbel. Optimism.

You, you don't belong
In this prison-like hospital
But I feel so responsible
And I know you feel ashamed
Just show me what you started with, that blade

Brought you some clean clothes
A calling card for the payphone
Magazines, headphones, CDs,
To grant you a distraction
Cause I know there's no one here to take you home

You'll be alright
My sound advice
Just hope you know
We are done
It's time to move on

Losing your voice in the crowded streets
Pulsing crunch of machinery
Oh so harsh frequency
In the city that we love

We love, we love, we love, love

Paint chipped and scraped
Evidence of forced entry
Red with disgust, violated
Remind me why I love
Living in this city I call home

Passenger's side, left open wide
Glass scattered about
Broken along with my optimism

Losing your voice in the crowded streets
Pulsing crunch of machinery
The oh so harsh frequency
In the city that we love

We love, we love, we love, love

None of your schemes work on me
Smoke signals are jokes to see
The smell sticks to your clothes
It's on everything I own

Like the rain that seeps through the cracks in my rubber soul