Pressure pushing down on me
Pressing down on you no man ask for
Under pressure... that burns a building down
Splits a family in two
Puts people on streets
It's the terror of knowing
What this world is about






The lower levels were a hodgepodge of creatures who had seen much better days. Beings that had fallen on hard times, whether they lost their jobs and could no longer afford lodging on the upper habitation rings, or they'd gambled away everything they owned to only end up living in a nook of one of the bypass corridors, with nothing but a shipping crate to serve as their home. For some they were only here temporarily until they could scrounge up enough credits to book passage off Jovan, and others had chosen to exist in the mostly-lawless under levels because that was where they were comfortable. And, well, there was a strange sort of safety in living without assurances. It made one alert, and cautious. It was a way to hone the senses.




Watching some good friends
Screaming `let me out'
Pray tomorrow... gets me higher
Pressure on people... people on streets




The normal security patrols on Jovan almost never came down here. It was a bother for them. After all, why not just let the riff-raff sort themselves out? There was no point in trying to police a group of folks when it was easier to let the exist in their squalor. It wasn't like they were making too much trouble anyway, other than the occasional stabbings - and even those were suspected to be highly unreported.




Chippin' around... kick my brains around the floor
These are the days
It never rains but it pours
People on streets... people on streets




The 'homes' down here consisted of pilfered cargo crates, sections of perma-tent, canvas overhangs, discarded durasteel... anything really. It was a crushed-together miasma of claimed territories, with some of the abandoned offices housing a small community of drifters. There were even hot-coal firespits that held the cooking carcasses of mynocks and womprats that had inevitably been brought aboard. Anything that made its' way down was subject to the very important test of whether it was edible or not. Usually, it was.




It's the terror of knowing
What this world is about
Watching some good friends
Screaming `let me out'
Pray tomorrow... gets me higher




For his own self, Gantuhar had secured his own small slice of not-quite-heaven. It was a small corner of one of the many offices dotting the lower rings, and he was even lucky enough to have a portion of the window, so that he had a view of the stars. He suspected that his size had helped him to lay his claim. Over months he had stolen and bartered for sections of durasteel, cargo crates, and even a dirt-encrusted floor rug that was his 'front door'. It wasn't perfect, but it had become home.




Turned away from it all like a blind man
Sat on a fence but it don't work
Keep coming up with love but it's so slashed and torn
Why... why... why
LOVE




Inside was a small assortment of collected trinkets and noise-makers that were hung from crudely fashioned hooks; he'd made them out of fizzy-cola pull tabs and screwed them into the low roof so that his chimes could be suspended. Some were brightly colored, some were faded, but all were still functional in some way. Some metal, some carved from Ithorian shoot-trees. There were even a few that he'd crafted for himself from spent powerpack casings, spanner sockets, and roller bearings.







Insanity laughs under pressure we're cracking
Can't we give ourselves one more chance
Why can't we give love that one more chance
Why can't we give love, give love, give love, give love, give love




Blankets covered the hard decking, each one having at least one hole somewhere. It was why he had made it his mission to gather as many discarded scraps as he could, to make sure that it was comfortable. Even his pillow have been fashioned from a hand-stitched bag and stuffed with every scrap of fluff and cloth that he could find. It was not perfect, but it had become comfortable in its' own way. He always added to it, to increase the softness of it.




'Cause love's such an old fashioned word
And love dares you to care for
The people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way of
Caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
This is our last dance
This is ourselves
Under pressure




He was home now, in those under levels. Quietly sitting out on the bit of flex-board that he used as a welcome mat. Others milled about, staying to their own selves, and that suited him well enough. He was busy anyway, crafting yet another hanging chime. This one was to be made from frayed twine that he'd found in a compacter, and small metal tubing that he suspected had come from a droid. The disembodied metal hand that was in his lap was a very good indicator. Methodically he pulled and unscrewed each smudged finger that had once been a glistening gold color. They would make such beautiful sounds when hung aloft.




Under pressure
Pressure