Letra de Abstract nonsense (en inglés)

The impractical theories on my desktop, unable to find any audience, disintegrate half-way.
My future plan, being woven with lead, is a fantasy of confrontational debates and arguments.
When I listen more closely, the story is secret talk. That kid is but a monochrome puppet.
Its owner, being kept in its heart, is a symphony of variable parameters.

Ah, attach a price tag to me.
Ah, even life itself is expectantly not moving forward. I´ll round the number.

How pointless. I want to stop, so I stick my head out of the window.
How boring. I´ve become weary, but I don´t have the courage to kill myself.
How pointless. I want to stop, so I stick a syringe into my wrist.
How boring. I´ve become weary, so I´m eating some cake and taking deep gasps.

Everybody is hung midair and swinging. The number of bolts and screws in their head is lacking.
My life, with two interlocked part-time jobs, is a factory of friendship.
When I raise my antenna, the story is secret talk. That kid, too, is but a monkey of mass media.
The fraudulent sales, conducted in a high-pitched voice, are the dustpans of existence.

Ah, you should come over here.
Ah, how many people are you going to kill like that? Round the number.

How pointless. I want to stop, so I press a knife against my bosom.
How boring. I´ve become weary, but I don´t have the resolve to inflict pain upon myself.
How pointless. I want to stop, so I let even my head be submerged.
How boring. I´ve become weary, so I´ll merely keep thinking because that´s all I have been doing.

Ah, if you keep crawling like a beggar,
ah, the proof will never be finished. Round the number.

How pointless. I want to stop, so I jump into a path.
How boring. I´ve become weary, so I start running away in the middle of my journey.

How pointless. I want to stop, so I point a gun at the temple of my forehead.
How boring. I´ve become weary, but I can only keep on fantasizing about suicide.
I feel like crying from my suffering, but am unable to cling to anyone,
and my voice is being ridiculed and ignored. To put it simply, I am merely a piece of junk.

It´s going to rain tomorrow for sure.