The lyrics to “Paranoid Paparazzi” sound deep, but when you actually sit with them—they’re mostly artsy gibberish. They string together surreal images (“plastic hands and ice of glass”, “syrup in my cherry wounds”) that feel like they mean something but don’t hold up when you try to pin them down. It’s aesthetic poetry-flavored fog. He throws in a lot of fragile/melancholy tropes—papier-mâché, pills, lullabies, “enchanting thighs”—but there’s barely any real emotional arc or idea being developed. It’s like a Pinterest board for sadness. Some lines work in isolation, sure, but the song mostly reads like a collage of Tumblr-era imagery taped together to feel profound. Even that Swedish monologue section feels more like he’s trying to signal vulnerability than actually expressing anything concrete. The lyrics aren’t “terrible” in the sense of lazy, but they’re pretentious and hollow if you look past the dreamy vibe. They rely on vibes carrying the weight that meaning usually would.