| This house, my home, so fucking quiet
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| Death manifesting my thoughts
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| The breeze pushes on, moments lost
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| I stare at the glass, I see myself and see no other
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| These walls, their memories
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| Those holes, forget those holes
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| But this god shaped hole, found buried like the dark sigil within me
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| A broken mirror, distorted basket case
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| Our shielded skin is a thing of the past
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| Picture hooks where our photographs hung
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| Hook my soul from within I am the decayed son
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| To bare witness to this, a life succumb to this
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| Top to bottom, cardboard boxes
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| Webs on the letterbox
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| The only thing stopping my dangling feet is having «Take me away»
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| by plot on repeat
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| I know I’m not the only one who’s lost someone they love
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| If I can learn from this, then I will teach you this
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| Take all the time to reminisce
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| Grab someone you love, tell them that you love them and make sure that you mean
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| it
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| 'Cause you never know if that’s gonna be the last time you’ll ever see them
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| again
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| I did that, I never got to fucking say goodbye
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| We are the dead generation
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| We’re barely breathing and heavily grieving
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| You can count on us if you feel like you’re lost
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| You haven’t heard the last of us |