Bo Burnham's Inside

Lyrics

So.
May Thirtieth. Twenty Twenty-One.
The prophet of the guest house logs on.

One room. Four walls. A universe of wires.
A whole year spent setting tiny, perfect fires.
The projector painting pixels on the door.
Heard you had panic attacks. Didn't want to perform anymore.
Funny.
So you performed the panic instead.
Let the beard grow long, lived inside your own head.
While we were all doomscrolling, you were building the code.
Making the anxiety a downloadable load.

He built the whole damn internet in just one room.
Gave a name to the feeling, a beat to the doom.
Welcome to the content, yeah, have a look around.
The funniest thing you've ever seen is the sound of a man breaking down.
And we danced to it.
Oh, we danced to it.

White woman's Instagram. Sexting with a synth.
Turning thirty in the abyss, making sense of the labyrinth.
Every brand on earth trying to "start a conversation."
You just filmed the silence. The digital nation's
collective vacant stare.
He held a mirror up and the mirror said "Error."
Said, "Apathy's a tragedy and boredom is a crime."
And we're all just killing ourselves to pass the time.

He built the whole damn internet in just one room.
Gave a name to the feeling, a beat to the doom.
Welcome to the content, yeah, have a look around.
The funniest thing you've ever seen is the sound of a man breaking down.
And we danced to it.
Yeah, we all danced to it.

So, was it a cry for help?
Or just the best-produced cry for help in history?
Did it heal anything at all?
Or did it just make the sickness feel like an aesthetic?
Doesn't matter.
You saw us.
Stuck inside. With everything, all of the time.
And for a second, we felt seen.
The patient recognizing the doctor.
And the doctor is just as sick as us.

The whole world's a guest house now.
We're all on camera.
Welcome.
Have a look around.
Anything your brain can think of can be found.