Det var slet ikke det jeg skulle, men...

It's a chilly English winter,
And solitude is never easy to maintain,
Except when it rains.
So I hang an empty smile beneath my empty eyes,
And go out for a walk.
The wet morning sun reflects off the paving-stones,
While a little dog barks its head off,
In the distance.

Oh, what a perfect day,
To think about myself
My feet are firmly screwed to the floor.
What is there to fear from such a regular world?

Passing by a cemetery,
I think of all the little hopes and dreams,
That lie lifeless and unfilled beneath the soil.
I see an old man fingering his perishing flesh.
He tells himself he was a good man and did good things.
Amused and confused by life's little ironies,
He swallows his bottle of distilled damnation.

Oh, what a perfect day,
To think about myself
My feet are firmly screwed to the floor.
What is there to fear from such a regular world?
People turn around with unseeing eyes.

They're looking for something that doesn't exist.
The world you once knew is being eaten up by rust.
No-one has time for the past, but still, in God they trust.
The future is now, but it's all going wrong.
Bodies good for nothing, but it's to nothing they belong.
People say their prayers and some work hard.
If you give them all your money, they'll give you their hearts.
This town ain't going like a ghost town.
It's going like hell....

Oh, what a perfect day,
To think about myself
My feet are firmly screwed to the floor.
What is there to fear from such a regular world?

The The "Perfect"

Billedet forestiller Tippen i Sydhavnen. Jeg gik tur derude forleden med mit soundtrack og min januar-weltschmerz. Tippen er en losseplads. Opfyld af byggematerialer som nu er groet til med små træer, hyben, græsser og havtorn. Det er smukt og vildt og føles temmelig off-roader -agtigt selv om man kan se civilisation hele vejen rundt i horisonten - og murbrokker der stikker op af 'nauren' hist og pist. Og så var det bare jeg ville sige, at sangen, mit liv, mine bunker af papirer, mine evindelige overvejelser af alting mindede mig om denne lommefilosofiske, men ikke desto mindre vigtige maksime: Der kan sagtens komme noget smukt ud af en stor bunke lort. Og i øvrigt, what is there to fear from such a regular world?