What good is a syllable?
I wish this disease was killable
nothing you say can change the way the hole remains 
unfillable
the burden unshakable
the breakable soul is up there without a net
are we having fun yet?
we're looking for the cure
the pure state of mind
but who has the time these days, who has the time?

gone are the days of the hero
there's nothing left but the one and the zero
which one are you?
you decide alone,
the dial tone your only guide since the deicide of 
Neitzche and Freud
left us with the void
aw thank you, big fellas
it was a hell of a thing to do...

Believe me
I would not lie to you today
I've heard words
I've heard words too small to say
I hear them fall like the rain
And they touch me just like hands
And the secret
The secret is not minding what you don't understand

gone are the days of the priest and the shaman
the answer is no
but oh - a bottle of pills
for twenty five bucks a week
and everything that you seek
and everything that is hunting you down
recedes to the sound of a dull roar
but you're up off the floor
and not so unsteady
ready? swallow the first one...

maybe we're only as sick as our secrets
and maybe our secrets are all that we own
maybe you pump air into the belljar and maybe you're 
under the belljar alone
maybe salvation falls from on high
maybe there's no salvation up there
maybe there's a secret
maybe we share

Believe me
I could not lie if I tried anyway
I've heard words
I've heard words too small to say
I hear them fall like the rain
I see them touch me like hands
And the secret
The secret is not minding what you don't understand

I got a secret I should tell
I'm going up to Heaven on a split pea shell.