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typing letters to the dead |
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late at night on a closed piano lid |
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she circles past, she fills your glass |
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but she doesn't recognise the song |
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once in a lifetime she says |
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the waking life stitched together in your head |
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well, what if it's only worth |
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the bundle of nerves it's written on? |
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and i don't need these arms anymore |
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i don't need this heart now, to love |
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i don't need this skin and bone at all |
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there's a way you've alwys known her |
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telephone between her cheek and her shoulder |
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and eyes like crystal balls |
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that just won't shut up about the future of the future |
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and ramona was a waitress |
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all but made of information |
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in a bar under the third bridge |
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she says she's looking forward to living forever |
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when i won't need these arms anymore |
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when i won't need this heart now to love |
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and i won't need this skin and bone at all |
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at all... |
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and ramona was a waitress... |