Alone, fragile, whole, messy in my own black hole.
The dinner isn't ready, the dinner for one.
No candles' re lit up but cigarette smoke hangs in the room.
And the flowers in the vase fade, they don't bloom.
I feel childish reminiscing the past.
But sometimes a friend calls, asks,
What's up, Stefanie? What's up?
And we go to watch a movie, we go in a piano concert.
But my visions' re unclear and my vision's blurry.
In January Vienna is a dead city inhabited by silhouettes.
I hate its ways, it's cold, two dimensional, flat.
The sun, I miss him, his hidden beauty.
I could even imagine the world without me.
She wouldn't stop. But I've decided
to drink every tear drop, to catch every joy left.