| I break the sidewalks in every stumble,
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| what are you doing?, you see, I feel so good
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| when you don't see me do my thing,
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| tracing my skin on pieces of paper,
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| count the tiles in my room,
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| cross my face on occasion
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| desire to hug the unreason
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| if everything I see tells me no,
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| what is your life?, I'm glad to see you
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| alone as never, alone as always...
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| I skin a heart in the brambles of my voice
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| and the same sun that shines on you kills me and
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| fleas eat me and I draw with my hands
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| early in the morning your eyes on the ceiling…
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| and the glass breaks in my chest
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| and I think of the two of them to the rhythm of the cough,
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| I haven't done it so badly, I saw myself shit on God,
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| you know it well, what am I going to do to it,
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| if my feet don't listen to me,
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| It only remains to be content with the remains,
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| eat the eggs for all those
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| who drink from you, from your kisses,
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| to die a little with so much silence,
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| close the curtains, seek another breath,
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| I skin a heart in the brambles
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| of my voice and the same sun kills me as you
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| it shines on you and the fleas eat me and I draw
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| with my hands in the early morning
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| your little eyes on the ceiling. |
| for how well we have… |