Bright synth right at the top—high, smooth, and already circling, with a steady low roll under it.

Voice drops in casual, still on that same shiny groove.

He's just listing the fantasy straight—Paris, heroin, stars—no big swell behind it.

Live fast and die young, sung like a decision they already made.

That overwhelming line still rides the beat; even the office-job joke stays on the rails.

Mothers and friends get brushed off, then the hook lands: fated to pretend.

Just pretend again—clean, short, no rupture.

Second verse, same glide underneath, but now it's playgrounds, worms, what he'll miss.

Sister, father, dog, home—still cruising while he names them.

Nothing we can do, then love must be forgotten—bass sits a little heavier under the bright top.

Choke on our vomit, that'll be the end—still delivered inside the shine.

We were fated to pretend—same hook, past tense this time.

Those yeahs don't answer the lyric; they just keep the surface lit.

And then it just drops—the beat backs off and the pattern quits instead of resolving.