Paper Saints

ARGYTACT - The Chronicler (original)

...Six o'clock. Is this a joke? That daily grind again.
But hey, without that grind, it would be a void. That's the joke I don't want to understand.

The sun shines through the cracks, as if it were something magical, blah blah.
My head is pounding, last night was really bad—and she was there, thank goodness.
My bed pulls me back, the luxury of that cotton.
But then I hear a rumbling, and I know I have to, otherwise I'm a clown.
Because somewhere in that house, there's someone demanding again—attention, no debit card, honestly.
So I have to get up, my back cracks like a loser, but I do walk.
Without me, that chicka is (of course) a user who loses her booster—and I don't want that, ever.

She's the reason, yes, the reason for this compulsion,
That I have to show my face, day in, day out, all the time.
That chick of mine, forever and ever there, yes indeed,
Like a ticket on your window—but one you're happy to pay, an avenger—of the void.
I love her (or something)—I love her, damn it!—that's the script I have to wear,
The sunrise in her eyes? No, the reflection of my questions—that she answers all.

My coffee is too lukewarm, the traffic jam is a joke, just like this marriage—that I don't want with anyone else.
But the schedule says: deliver, the daily injection. That she gives me.
I push that chaos away, with that thought: what am I supposed to get now?
Some new trend—that makes her happy, and that's the only deal.
She's my budget manager, my taste police, my prison—the one who keeps my life in order.
Without me, she'd get lost, in her own drunken genesis—and I can't watch that.
And I have to be the hero, to keep that fiction alive,
Otherwise the drama is too much, and then I have to shower again and shoulder—to hug her.

She's the reason, yes, the reason for this compulsion,
That I have to show my face, day in, day out, all the time.
That chick of mine, forever and ever there, yes indeed,
Like a ticket on your window—but one you're happy to pay, an avenger—of the void.
I love her (or something)—I love her, damn it!—that's the script I have to wear,
The sunrise in her eyes? No, the reflection of my questions—which she answers all.

It's not about perfection, it's about control—no, it's about everything.
Knowing that when I'm gone, she'll cry is wonderful—but then I cry harder.
Her hand in mine? Yes, then I know where she's going—and where I'm supposed to be.
It's the mortgage, the car, the brand that drives me—she is that brand, she is the "why."
She's the burden, the assurance that I'm not alone in this suffering—and that's worth its weight in gold.
The reason I know I won't just run away—I don't want to be without her, fat.

When I get home, empty and ready, the interrogation session follows,
"Why are you late? Who did you see?" Not an injection of energy—but a homecoming.
The simplicity of "How was your day?" is a trap, I've been warned—because she cares about me. Because then the list of complaints follows, and my soul is crushed again—and then healed.
And I say, "I love you," with that hollow gaze—which is actually full of love, the routine tested,
Because as long as she's there, I know I won't be released from this hell just like that—I don't want to be released, plague.

Always there... forever... the plague—that is my salvation.
My chicka... my chain... the daily question—the answer is me, when she's there.

I can't live without her, man. Ever.

ARGYTACT 2025

CHICKA feat. JOJO (English)

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Paper Saints

dj killshot

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