There’s no plot, no meaning, or point.
Who’s writing this script, anyway?
Then glaring through tight squinted eyes:
If it’d do any good, I’d complain.

Who’s writing this script, anyway?
My part isn’t worth getting up.
If it’d do any good, I’d complain,
but who listens to unknowns like me?

My part isn’t worth getting up.
She pulled back her hair with the brush.
Who listens to unknowns like me?
Her fingers were twisting the curls.

She pulled back her hair with the brush
and looking into her own face,
her fingers were twisting the curls
in silence so perfect and bright.

And looking into her own face,
the tears were already there.
In silence so perfect and bright
she slouched and let go of her hair.

Her tears were already there.
There’s no plot, no meaning or point.
She slouched and let go of her hair,
glaring through tight squinted eyes.