Such a Sweet Ability

Such a sweet ability to be incoherent

Such a bitter gift of being alive

Dance is the only real translation of painting

Put your feet on a canvas

Print your way through the night

Death forgave us for being alive

Because at least we counted the steps

Mom never wanted dad to be worried

Fear is the only real translation of death

I stepped on a rug called earth last night

A little bird called techno landed on my head

Paint is the only real translation of dancing

Put your feet on the canvas and dance your way through the day

The irrational fiction we decided to call life

When in the end all your life condensed this light

Your mom never did anything but worry

While your dad fed the birds asking them advice

I stepped on a rug called earth last night

A little bird called techno landed on my head

Paint is the only real translation of dancing

Put your feet on the canvas and dance your way through the day

Such a sweet ability to be incoherent

Such a bitter gift of being alive

Dance is the only real translation of painting

Put your feet on a canvas

Print your way through the night

Death forgave us for being alive

Because at least we counted the steps

Mom never wanted dad to be worried

Fear is the only real translation of death

I stepped on a rug called earth last night

A little bird called techno landed on my head

Paint is the only real translation of dancing

Put your feet on the canvas and dance your way through the day

Such a sweet ability to be incoherent

Such a bitter gift of being alive

Dance is the only real translation of painting

Put your feet on a canvas

Print your way through the night

Death forgave us for being alive

Because at least we counted the steps

Mom never wanted dad to be worried

Fear is the only real translation of death

I stepped on a rug called earth last night

A little bird called techno landed on my head

Paint is the only real translation of dancing

Put your feet on the canvas and dance your way through the day

Such a sweet ability to be incoherent

Such a bitter gift of being alive

Dance is the only real translation of painting

Put your feet on a canvas

Print your way through the night

Death forgave us for being alive

Because at least we counted the steps

Mom never wanted dad to be worried

Fear is the only real translation of death

I stepped on a rug called earth last night

A little bird called techno landed on my head

Paint is the only real translation of dancing

Put your feet on the canvas and dance your way through the day