I No Longer Know If I Am Mad Lyrics
| Song | I No Longer Know If I Am Mad |
| Artist | Age of Silence |
| Album | Acceleration |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : Kobbergaard | |
| I no longer know if I am mad | |
| or if I'm feigning it to cover my own mediocrity | |
| I sometimes feel like a fell wizened necromancer | |
| labouring at his pleasure | |
| performing his liturgy as one long consumed by ashes | |
| Factory fumes nourishing the dreams of the cosmopolite | |
| Affectionate longing for white coats, auditoriums and blackboard dust | |
| Spiraling walkways, webs of concrete, bricks and mirrored glass | |
| I no longer know if I have experienced passion/love/despair/hate | |
| Was it only socially induced behaviour? | |
| Like long forgotten twisted poetry | |
| gleaned from mouldy parchment | |
| Pain is always more real than bliss | |
| It's in greater supply | |
| It's the warm familiar womb in which your mind can hide | |
| As your open doors and portals | |
| Walk the paved paths to offerings | |
| Foiled predetermined neurological patterns | |
| Like paper boats bound for the drains | |
| You speak the incantations written on grey mortal walls | |
| syllables tasting like blood in your mouth | |
| You know absolution | |
| You know mortality | |
| Reality slowly peeled layer by layer | |
| outwards to the fringe where upon the altar of forgotten deities | |
| the combustion of the self still vibrates | |
| Dark flowers thrusting their thorns up | |
| reaching where manifestations of the skies labour to fill the vacuum | |
| You seek to explain the universe with numbers | |
| Itch to fill in the final answer underlined twice | |
| Like an infant you step into the first light at dawn | |
| It's bright and bitter and sharp |
| zuo qu : Kobbergaard | |
| I no longer know if I am mad | |
| or if I' m feigning it to cover my own mediocrity | |
| I sometimes feel like a fell wizened necromancer | |
| labouring at his pleasure | |
| performing his liturgy as one long consumed by ashes | |
| Factory fumes nourishing the dreams of the cosmopolite | |
| Affectionate longing for white coats, auditoriums and blackboard dust | |
| Spiraling walkways, webs of concrete, bricks and mirrored glass | |
| I no longer know if I have experienced passion love despair hate | |
| Was it only socially induced behaviour? | |
| Like long forgotten twisted poetry | |
| gleaned from mouldy parchment | |
| Pain is always more real than bliss | |
| It' s in greater supply | |
| It' s the warm familiar womb in which your mind can hide | |
| As your open doors and portals | |
| Walk the paved paths to offerings | |
| Foiled predetermined neurological patterns | |
| Like paper boats bound for the drains | |
| You speak the incantations written on grey mortal walls | |
| syllables tasting like blood in your mouth | |
| You know absolution | |
| You know mortality | |
| Reality slowly peeled layer by layer | |
| outwards to the fringe where upon the altar of forgotten deities | |
| the combustion of the self still vibrates | |
| Dark flowers thrusting their thorns up | |
| reaching where manifestations of the skies labour to fill the vacuum | |
| You seek to explain the universe with numbers | |
| Itch to fill in the final answer underlined twice | |
| Like an infant you step into the first light at dawn | |
| It' s bright and bitter and sharp |
| zuò qǔ : Kobbergaard | |
| I no longer know if I am mad | |
| or if I' m feigning it to cover my own mediocrity | |
| I sometimes feel like a fell wizened necromancer | |
| labouring at his pleasure | |
| performing his liturgy as one long consumed by ashes | |
| Factory fumes nourishing the dreams of the cosmopolite | |
| Affectionate longing for white coats, auditoriums and blackboard dust | |
| Spiraling walkways, webs of concrete, bricks and mirrored glass | |
| I no longer know if I have experienced passion love despair hate | |
| Was it only socially induced behaviour? | |
| Like long forgotten twisted poetry | |
| gleaned from mouldy parchment | |
| Pain is always more real than bliss | |
| It' s in greater supply | |
| It' s the warm familiar womb in which your mind can hide | |
| As your open doors and portals | |
| Walk the paved paths to offerings | |
| Foiled predetermined neurological patterns | |
| Like paper boats bound for the drains | |
| You speak the incantations written on grey mortal walls | |
| syllables tasting like blood in your mouth | |
| You know absolution | |
| You know mortality | |
| Reality slowly peeled layer by layer | |
| outwards to the fringe where upon the altar of forgotten deities | |
| the combustion of the self still vibrates | |
| Dark flowers thrusting their thorns up | |
| reaching where manifestations of the skies labour to fill the vacuum | |
| You seek to explain the universe with numbers | |
| Itch to fill in the final answer underlined twice | |
| Like an infant you step into the first light at dawn | |
| It' s bright and bitter and sharp |
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