We learned to fall before we flew,
built paper wings,
painted them blue.
Every crash became a show,
every scar a thing to glow.
We toast to all our quiet wars,
turned broken glass to mirrored stars.
They call it failure, we just smiled.
The art of sinking with style.
Every bruise a brushstroke fine,
every loss a new design.
Is there anyone else in your family who is talented?
Speak up!
Who are you?
Speak up and answer my question.
What is the question?
Is there anyone else in your family who is talented?
I am a paper-making man.
I carry my father's head and carry my mother's bag.
If you tell a person that you are
heartbroken by something and that person is special to you,
and yet that person is doing the same
thing that is making you heartbroken,
then write this down.
He is special to you,
you are special to him.
The art of sinking with style.
The art of sinking with style.
Maybe this is what it means to lose your truth,
but keep the dreams.
We float on ghosts,
we drift through light,
still shining as we say goodnight.
We rise in flame, every loss becomes our frame.
With grace we fall,
with pride we lie.
We burn beneath a silver sky,
let them watch, we'll never cry.
We mastered pain and made it high.