Текст песни Mallwalkers (Fred Thomas) с переводом

Is this the same song? Does something feel slower?

Is something wrong? Is there anything wrong?

Does something feel slower?

Or is this just the same daydreamed death where you see yourself lowered

Into the cold, greedy ground as your parents and plagiarists lose their shit

Sobbing over your casket

And you broadcast it every couple of hours

When you’re not busy with customers

Selling cell phone cases and cords at that kiosk in the middle of the mall

Air-conditioned days in this insufferable summer

And at night you watch your friends dance around

Feeling weird about fucking each other

And you wonder «Do I even need to be here?» and «Why does this hurt?»

You find a more consistent community with those early morning mallwalkers

Than these horrid hushed hall talkers; judge-gabled gawkers

Some will call you their crush, but they’re all stalkers

And soon enough you’ll find yourself thrust up against those fall lockers

Dreaming of a simple suspended eternity

Where you’re stoned in your basement, playing games

Hanging out with your dogs

Could it ever be possible to just pause on that feeling?

And why does it seem like now every boy cuts you off when you start speaking?

And why do things feel negated before they’re experienced?

Why does it hurt?

When they tell you you talk like a teenager, you sound so stupid

Say nothing

Because those high school scars, and the parallel bars

All the lonely lights on these frozen cars

Every broken-wrist handstand in some best friend’s yard

And every ugly part of everything that people keep on telling you you are

They aren’t yours, they’re just wrong

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