T.R.W [English translation]

I've never had a "happy end" anywhere but in shady massage parlors in South Eastern Asia.

I don't need your false plastic miracles nor for you to give me some discounted romantic Five-Timers.

I don't want your conterfeit emotions.

I need something real, something complex, some 24 carat diamond stuff.

So, with all due respect shove your phoney scripts up your ass, the ones that carry away your skin when they light up like Nylon, like Made in China.

You can keep all that.

That girl in the commercial won't ever love me

even if you try to pull it on me each time.

Tori Black won't fuck me either. She stops fucking when she steps off set. When she gets home, she's tired, she's nasty.

It's normal, it's not a big deal.

Shit, bring me back from the dead, some red wine, some Lexapro, or even all three.

If that doesn't work I could still hit up some coolant or escort girls, I'd spend all my money on that. Anything to get you to shut up.

I don't need my horoscope or shiny things for a desktop

or the speed of light, or a new car smarter than me,

or a better conscience, or a new brain, or a new me, a new I wouldn't even know what the fuck to do with it.

I don't have health problems, let alone new challenges

I already have everything I need, thanks.

So stop talking to me like I'm an idiot.

I don't want anyone to serve me mashed potatoes or to tie my shoelaces. Besides, that thing of yours isn't done right, don't you think?

Just take a look at yourself, you get everyone down.

We want to jump off a bridge you're so stupid with your little machines in your head. Same for your ugly features, your bold facts, your stuff that's too simple to be respectable.

Come on, put your balls on the table.

Atleast once in your life, spit out your Nyquil

and pull up your pants, your asshole's leaking.

It makes like white noise, it's fucking tiresome.

We can't hear our own thoughts anymore,

Who do we have to blow for you to leave us the hell alone?

On the way out, you can also take back your bone setter diagnostics.

For example: Julien isn't a "commited quitter" or any other of your labels. Julien dreams of a turquoise sea, calme, and poetry.

Like many others, he isn't a diagram or an animal. He isn't an object. Julien is complex, he peacefully takes drugs, goes out to nightclubs, caresses his colleague with whom he's very much in love, in the back kitchen. Julien needs his depth.

I don’t have an excessive desire to punch the lights out of my neighbor,

and I’m pretty sure the same goes for him.

So don’t give yourself the trouble

take back your shit, your latest aversions, swallow back down your venom, your obsessive fears,

your psychosis. I have no use for them.

I don’t need new fears or news nightmares or new infatuations,

I’ve already given so much, we good now?

Where would you even want me to put that?

I don’t have space anywhere. Fucking no where, I said!

So pack it up, pack it back up, and get far the hell away from here.

You won’t make me believe the other guy is an asshole, since the asshole is in me.

And on that track, you have the same inside you.

So you won’t see me jump on my brothers

and you will never get me behind a gun, only unless there’s a chance you walk in front.

Maybe life is a bitch,

It's true that we hear that sometimes.

All the while, I see a billion sweet and beautiful things

It's not artificial sand, it's metal, it's solid

like the smell of flowers

I won't live under your reign of terror.

• Artist:Fauve ≠
• Album:Vieux frères – Partie 2 (2015)