"Food for the moon"
(Aliosha Michelén, J1 Martínez)

It's not a medal of honour I desire, It's the truth of what's we are best of and what we aren't, fixed on a dollar, legs locked, I sit in my room, white walls figure out who's hungry, who's who.

I am the one who keeps a log of what you do,

Behind the wall I take pic of you, slight desire,

Moving partly past afterhours, ask someone to roll a fiver,

Take two hits confessing sours.

But the tension has left our situation, mechanical tolerance for sale on special

Yeah, plus our plans seem to have worked out perfectly, 9 to 5, 8 to 6 to 7, sell me at Seven Eleven.

Food for the moon, that is what we are.

Food for the moon, that is all we are.

Tell me, is it amusing being distorted on display?

Sidenote, my friends call me J,

By the way, I am disclosing informations, optical desceptions.

I get kicks from altering your dimensions, mechanical tolerance for sell on special

I hungry pray, am I special enough for patté?

Burger, fries, imaginary hall of fame?

But our plans seem to have worked out perfectly, 9 to 5, 8 to 6 to 7, sell me at Seven Eleven.

Food for the moon, that is what we are.

Food for the moon, that is all we are.