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Walter Mitty and His Makeshift Orchestra
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Compersion
But anyways, before I leave I wanted to say, 'look where you please but you will not find a better friend than yourself.'
Nowadays, it's fairly apparent, I suffer from severe disenchantment.
I've made my bed with a nice pillow and no truth.
But really it's ok. Call me tomorrow.
Put it into perspective and there's no one to blame.
It's just one of those sins that comes with the moment.
It's out of our hands and over our heads, and that's great...
But where is the comfort? And what is the sure thing?
Now home is a luxury, I crawl up and sink in my love.
See, heaven's a let-down and god is exhausting.
Us pseudo-intellectuals say this is why we need our vices.
We're doomed to be always in love with the fragile things,
chronically low on my gas and batteries while I'm battling the itch to be great.
So this is the comfort, and this is the heart ache.
Lesson learned as animals, everything else seems arbitrary.
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