Watsky - Tiny Glowing Screens, Part 2 Lyrics
There’s 7 billion 46 million people on the planetAnd most of us have the audacity to think we matterHey, you hear the one about the comedian who croaked?Someone stabbed him in the heart, just a little pokeBut he keeled over ‘cause he went into battle wearing chain mail made of jokesHey, you hear the one about the screenwriter who passed away?He was giving elevator pitches and the elevator got stuck halfwayHe ended up eating smushed sandwiches they pushed through a crack in the doorAnd repeating the same crappy screenplay idea about talking dogs 'til his last dayHey, you hear the one about the fisherman who passed?He didn’t jump off that ledgeHe just stepped out into the air and pulled the ground up towards him really fastLike he was pitching a line and went fishing for concreteThe earth is a drum and he’s hitting it on beatThe reason there’s smog in Los Angeles is ‘cause if we could see the starsIf we could see the context of the universe in which we existAnd we could see how small each one of us isAgainst the vastness of what we don’t knowNo one would ever audition for a McDonalds commercial againAnd then where would we be?No frozen dinners and no TVAnd is that a world we want to text in?Either someone just microwaved popcornOr I hear the sound of a thousand people pulling their heads out of their asses in rapid successionThe people are hunched over in BostonThey’re starting app stores and screen printing companies in San FranciscoThey’re grinning in Los Angeles like they’ve got fishhooks in the corners of their mouthBut don’t paint me like the good guy ‘cause every time I writeI get to choose the angle that you view me and select the nicest lightYou wouldn’t respect me if you heard the typewriter chatter tap tapTapping through my mind at nightThe same stupid tape loop of old sitcom dialogueAnd tattered memories of a girl I got to grind on in high schoolFiled carefully on rice paperMy heart is a colored pencilBut my brain is an eraserI don’t want a real girl, I want to trace her from a catalogueTruth be told I’m unlikely to hold you downCause my soul is a crowded subway trainAnd people keep deciding to get on the next one that rolls through townI’m joining a false movement in San FranciscoI’m frowning and hunched over in BostonI’m smiling in Los Angeles like I’ve got fishhooks in the corners of my mouthAnd I’m celebrating on weekendsBecause there are 7 billion 47 million people on the planetAnd I have the audacity to think I matterI know it’s a lie but I prefer it to the alternativeBecause I’ve got a tourniquet tied at my elbow / I’ve gotA blunt wrap filled with compliments and I’m burnin itYou say to go to sleep but I been bouncing off my bedroom walls since I was hecka smallWe’re every age at once and tucked inside ourselves like Russian nesting dollsMy mother is an 8 year old girlMy grandson is a 74 year old retiree whose kidneys just failedAnd that’s the glue between me and youThat’s the screws and nailsWe live in a house made of each otherAnd if that sounds strange that’s because it isSomeone please freeze time so I can run around turning everyone’s pockets inside outAnd remember, you didn’t see shit
