Talk about a dream, try to make it real.
I have spent my life judging the distance between American reality and the American dream.
What if what you do to survive kills the things you love?
You're born into this life paying for the sins of somebody else's past.
Outside the street's on fire in a real death waltz between what's flesh and what's fantasy.
Sometimes, at night you could hear the whole damn city crying.
You get used to anything, sooner or later it just becomes your life.
Badlands, you got to live it everyday, let the broken hearts stand as the price you've got to pay.
I got Mary pregnant and man that's all she wrote. And for my 19th birthday, I got a union card and a factory coat.
I'm just tired and bored with myself.
My soul is lost, my friend, tell me how do I begin again? My city's in ruins, my city's in ruins.
...It's all sort of dreams and it's all illusion. It's theater; it's not real. We're making up stories, you know, and people tend to run into you and believe you are your characters. And I suppose the funny thing is the longer you go, you do become sort of some version of [your characters]. You both diverge from them - you know - you live, but you also permanently inhabit that geography and that mental space - and so you do morph a little bit. We do become what we imagine.
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