| So, here goes: one last letter now
|
| One last attempt to make sense
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| Who have I been writing to? |
| I’m not sure anymore
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| What have I been trying to accomplish?
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| It’s a mystery, I guess. |
| Self-made secrecy?
|
| Things get cloudy and now all these stories and
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| The struggle as an undercurrent, both get blurry by the minute, both get
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| blurrier
|
| So which voice is this then that I’ve been writing in? |
| Is it my own or his?
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| Has there ever been a difference between them at all? |
| I don’t know
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| I don’t know
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| I don’t know
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| One last desperate plea. |
| One last verse to sing
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| One last laugh track to accompany the comedy
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| Have I been losing it completely? |
| Losing sanity?
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| Or has it been fabricated, fashioned by the worst of me?
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| I know I knocked the table over because I watched the jar break
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| And I’ve been trying to repair it every single stupid day
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| But won’t the cracks still show no matter how well it’s assembled?
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| Can I ever just decide to let it die and let you go?
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| All my motives and every single narrative below reflects
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| That moment when you it broke
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| And will I never let it go no matter what?
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| Now I am throwing all the shards away
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| Discarding every fragment, and fumbling uncertain
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| Towards a curtain call that no one wants to happen
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| That no one’s going to clap for at all, but that still has to be |