Texty: Bright Eyes. Going For The Gold.

There's a voice on the phone telling what had happened. Some kind of confusion, more like a disaster. And it wondered how you were left unaffected, but you had no knowledge. No, the chemicals covered you. And so the jury was formed as more liquor was poured. No need for conviction, they're not thirsting for justice. But I slept with the lies I keep inside my head. I found out I was guilty, I found out I was guilty. But I won't be around for the sentencing, cause I'm leaving, I'm on the next airplane.
Though I know that my actions are impossible to justify. They seem adequate to fill up my time. But if I could talk to myself like I was someone else. Well, then maybe I could take your advice. And I wouldn't act like such an asshole all the time.

There's a film on the wall, makes the people look small, who are sitting beside it, all consumed in the drama. They must return to their lives once the hero has died, they will drive to the office, stopping somewhere for coffee. Where the folk singers, poets, and playwrights convene, dispensing their wisdom, oh dear amateur orator. And they will detail their pain in some standard refrain, that will recite their sadness, like it's some kind of contest.

Well if it is, I think I am winning it. All beaming with confidence as I make my final lap. The gold medal gleams, so hang it around my neck, cause I am deserving it, the champion of idiots.

But a kid carries his walkman on that long bus ride to Omaha. I know a girl who cries when she practices violin, cause each note sounds so pure, it just cuts into her, and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes. Now to me, everything else, it just sounds like a lie