(She lives like russian roulette.
Barrel up to the head.
Where every sweet young move is
belonging to a sickness.)

Now enter special things
to detour all the pain,
like a brand new, solid mess.
But nothing seems to last...

It strikes when you've thought you won.
It's self destruction.
It strikes when you've thought you won.
And the delicate balance
won't survive the turbulence.

Now, enter the escape
from everything you've made.
Cause something wrong inside
won't let you live your life.

It strikes when you've thought you won.
It's self destruction.
It strikes when you've thought you won.
And down you will go,
with a tail of flames
stretched out behind you.
The cold wind will blind you.
And in all that you can't see.
The simplicity is beautiful.

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