21 is special, back to Scott Walker's Farmer in the city:

Who are you, 21, I'll give you, 21

I made that dream about that dress he told me he would buy. There was that dance with her in first sight, talked about the ancient and it turned out i wasn't that far from scoring. She died since. God has denied us it's kingdom, if you wait another day, there will be stations waving foreign flags and religious adverts. I'm the kind that leaves a message on the answering machine, singing an sad song. forgive sins, forget sinners and let me be your underwear, at least undercover. looking for Fight Club at the video renting agency, i finally found the tape in english, when trying to check out, the lady at the counter was convinced that was my mother tongue after she warned me it wasn't in french. a few words left my mouth, with an undecipherable accent, she almost took. the film was very good. when i brought the tape back, she was there and didn't even notice me. i loved her and left her before she knew me. i bought flowers in first intention but by the time i got there, they were dry to dust. plot loosers united, planning an ipo of minor sins. last when i went to a party, i was introduced to a girl i didn't recognize whereas we had that mineral encounter discussion a few months before, lisa. checking the log i found traces of florence, whose indecent proposition i rejected in a past slice of time, no so documented. giving up the ghost to resurect the shinning path. coast to host, mature kids, we were hunting the myriads and end up in your backyard. who wants to talk about doom on the bay ? i felt like somebody really close was dead and that noone dares to let me be aware because they miss estimated this circle to be square. period, next stance by the tide. if you ever dare to explain why you left me abruptly, whether you are Claire or Arianne, but charges of not being fair lay so heavy on the not so documented parts of my tale. cruel lonesome epic is a shortcut to the shinning path for units like me. it spins until blur, vectors can't comprehend, partial martial art, figures there's another way. the blessed is hurt, pain paint it white, nose noise figures the future. i don't stand a chance, aim lack is vain. outside the bells from the church remind me i don't have a reason to wake up in the morning. i move to abstract sex, kurt and scott in the station, the images that wipes initiative, social complex, fade to fight, the not being. i've been hurt, but your fate justifies it.