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Mountain ranges |
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Morning red bathed ridges |
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Stab up at the trembling blue horizon |
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Grey slides lazily off rooftops |
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Lands on the incandescent ground and dies |
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A flock of little men touch down on the thin surface of porchlight |
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Dawn's footsoldiers return to march the twilight across our faces |
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Skylights ignite and explode |
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Scattering shards of april around the room |
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No one even lives here |
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We're too busy crashin our cars every morning in the same house |
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Paving the same roads |
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Unwilling to walk them |
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And even when we extend ourselves, its only to be included |
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In a moment that stands still |
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And so often we don't struggle to improve conditions |
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We struggle for the right to say "We improved conditions" |
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And so often we form communities |
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Only to use them as exclusionary devices |
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And we forget that somewhere man is beside himself with grief |
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And somewhere people are calling for teachers |
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And no one's answering |
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Somewhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose against the door |
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And somewhere these people are keeping records |
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And writing a book |
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For now we can call it "The Book About the Basic FlawOr " |
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The Book About the |
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Letter A"Or " |
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Any Title |
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That a Book |
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About a Man |
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That No One |
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Cares About |
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Might Have"And as we turn the pages we call out the sounds of nothingThe sounds of a vanishing alphabetStanding here waiting |