Текст песни Tiny Glowing Screens, Pt. 2 - Live - Watsky

There's seven billion forty-six million people on the planet
And most of us have the audacity to think we matter
Hey! You hear the one about the comedian who croaked?
They stabbed him in the heart, just a little poke
But he keeled over 'cause he went into battle wearing chain mail made of jokes
Hey! You hear the one about the screenwriter who passed away?
He was giving elevator pitches and the elevator got stuck halfway
He ended up eating smushed sandwiches they pushed, through a crack in the door
And repeating the same crappy screenplay idea about talking dogs 'til his last day
Hey! You hear the one about the fisherman who passed?
Well he didn't jump off that ledge
He just stepped out into the air and pulled the ground up towards him really fast
Like he was pitching a line and went fishing for concrete
The earth is a drum and he's hitting it on beat
The reason there's smog in Los Angeles, is because if we could see the stars
If we could see the context of the universe in which we exist
And we could see how small each one of us really is
Against the vastness of what we don't know
Then nobody would ever audition for a McDonalds commercial again
And then where would we be?
No frozen dinners and no TV
And is that a world we want to text in?
Either someone just microwaved popcorn
Or I hear the sound of a thousand people pulling their heads out of their asses in rapid succession
The people are hunched over in Boston
They're starting screen printing companies and app stores in San Francisco
They're grinning in Los Angeles like they've got fishhooks in the corners of their mouth
But don't paint me like the good guy 'cause every time I write
I get to choose the angle that you view me and select the nicest light
You would not respect me if you heard the typewriter chatter tap tap
Tapping through my mind at night
The same stupid tape loop of old sitcom dialogue
And tattered memories of a girl I got to grind on in high school
Filed carefully on rice paper
My heart is a colored pencil
But my brain is an eraser
I don't want a real girl, I want to trace her from a catalogue
Truth be told I'm unlikely to hold you down
Cause my soul is a crowded subway train
And people keep deciding to get on the next one that rolls through town
I'm joining a false movement in San Francisco
I'm frowning and hunched over in Boston
I'm grinning in Los Angeles like I've got fishhooks in the corners of my mouth
And I'm celebrating on weekends
Because there are seven billion forty-seven million people on the planet
And I have the audacity to think I matter
I know it's a lie but I prefer it to the alternative
Because I've got a tourniquet tied at my elbow
I've got a blunt wrap filled with compliments and I'm burnin' it
You say to go to sleep but I been bouncing off my bedroom walls since I was hecka small
We're every age at once and tucked inside ourselves like Russian nesting dolls
My mother is an eight year old girl
My grandson is a seventy-four year old retiree whose kidneys just failed
And that is the glue between me and you
That is the screws and nails
We live in a house made of each other
And if that sounds strange that's because it is
Would somebody please freeze time so I can run around, turning everyone's pockets inside out
And remember
You didn't see shit!