You've never shown a trace of human frailty, No-one could ever catch you on the hop: Each post-modern take on the action would find you already, in principle, totally hot, all self-referential commentary and a marketing man's sense of talk shop. The sharper the image you cut the more you seem unreal; so sharp you could cut yourself, transparently ideal. We all know that hard-boiled look, you cooked it up to face down the stares; I feel like I'm walking on eggshells around you, as though you're already no longer quite there. You acknowledge your trauma, your neurosis is stripped and laid bare. The sharper the image you cut the more you disappear; so sharp you could cut yourself, somehow this transparency's unclear. All the mirrors in your playroom, they twist your psycho-epidermis into shape. No doubt you emerged in your make-up believing quite simply, believing that you'd got it taped but the vacancy you offered is already a Cheshire Cat gape. The sharper the image you cut the more you disappeared; so sharp you could cut yourself - are you still really here? And the sharper the image you cut the more you seemed a fake, so sharp you could cut yourself, transparently opaque....... And the sharper the image you cut the less you seemed alive, so sharp, but this open book's transparently jive. You were so sharp you cut yourself, so sharp you could cut yourself, you were so sharp you made yourself transparent and transparently unclear