Always the same faces, the same surroundings, the same conversations, the same problems. The more it changes, the more it repeats itself. In the end, you feel as if you’re dying alive.

And it's the same sad song coming back again. The same old song, flows back again. ~ "So Much Work"

Of course it's the same old story. Truth usually is the same old story.

It's always the same thing, one war after another —

They came on in the same old way, and we sent them back in the same old way.

Tired,
above all,
of being always with myself,
of finding myself everyday,
when the dream comes to an end,
wherever I am,
with the same old nose
and with the same old legs.

It’s always been the same, same old story. From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen Now there’s a way and I know that I have to go — away

Can’t you see it’s the same? The same guns, the same children dying in the streets? Only the dream has changed, the blood is the same colour.

An dem Tag, an dem du denkst, du kannst nicht mehr besser werden, fängst du an, immer den gleichen Song zu spielen.

It's the same old song,
You've gotta be somewhere at sometime,
And they never let you fly.
It's like broken glass,
You get cut before you see it,
So open up your eyes.

There was too much of a sameness about the evening’s delights. He had been the same route too many times. He’d been there before, so double-damned often, and however you traveled—backward, forward, or walking on your hands—you always got to the same place. You got nowhere, in other words, and each trip took a little more out of you.

It feels like a moment I've lived a thousand times before, as if everything is familiar, right up to the moment of my death, that it will happen again an infinite number of times, that we will meet, marry, have our children, succeed in the ways we have, fail in the ways we have, all exactly the same, always unable to change a thing. I am again at the bottom of an unstoppable wheel, and when I feel my eyes close for death, as they have and will a thousand times, I awake.

And then there was the routine, the mind-numbing routine. It was the castration of thought, the daily grind of an office worker who drooled at the clock, punched out, watched TV until sleep overtook him, slapped an alarm three times, did it again.

It's the same old tune, fiddle and guitar.
Where do we take it from here?
Rhinestone suits and new shiny cars;
We've been the same way for years.
We need to change.