white glasses and a haze in the air. lenses so black the night seems to loose its city limied orange glow. three bored losers, a fresh bowl in the pipe and a half a tank of gas...what to do, what to do. the truck fills with an layer of wasted breath. rise against becomes the sound track to our pathetic lives. the night never seems to end. "its gotta be like fucking 11:30" the clock reads 9:25. this is a perfect fucking night. we're not trying to live for any particular moment...just wasting time. we feed off of each other, we share our loinlyness to live. through the black smog of the shadowy night, in the hot boxed truck, dazed vision and confused perseptions. this is the perfect night. nothing could ruin it. we are losers every day, all day...but tonight we're heros, we're gods, we're perfect.