Traps PS - Imprint Lyrics

It's true. I don't like you. The favorite words of the modern man. The favorite words of the modern woman.
Inside glass halls, empty seats. Is this (a vice device), E T C? The warm fit of the control crown myth. A perfect fear. To watch, and to being watched. To the sound we make. Endlessly. Paint the mirror there, R E D. For that perfect fear. We draw the lines, we plot the angles.
We got the lines, to live by. Those sort of lights are sort of fading. An ending I can live by. Inhale.