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the city is a trap |
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in which we fling our worries |
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and grasp for somebodys promise |
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of the good life |
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forever changing plans |
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restrained by envious spirits |
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and wanting to want to give in |
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and go for the country |
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my love will always be |
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of vibrant and dense traffic music |
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that fills me up when nothing is expected |
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the push |
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and the shock |
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the handshake that could be changing your direction |
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the mess |
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and the chaos |
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the sounds of someone close to falling apart |
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don't wake me from the dream |
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don't shake me from the notion |
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that the day will come |
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and I'll belong and not be lost |
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so far away from hell |
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from unpaid debts and world war |
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where my bare feet are walking on dew |
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without treading a needle |
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on a needle |
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the push |
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and the fall |
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the handshake to the change of your direction |
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the mess |
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and the chaos |
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the sounds of someone close to falling apart |