| The languid this rock is the water it touches
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| The surface to crack and turn round
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| No idle reflections to mute my perfection
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| But shrink and blow all the way down
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| Here’s what I see, what came down is too easy
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| Reflections to crumble or turn round
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| Here’s what I need, but be proud, it’s too early
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| For nothing to work out somehow
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| Tied down to the easels to lean against greater times
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| One where the theories are there
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| No eager commitment to place the indifferent
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| Shoot all the feelings that came
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| Here’s what I see, what came down is too easy
|
| Reflections to crumble or turn round
|
| Here’s what I need, but be proud, it’s too early
|
| For nothing to work out somehow
|
| Here’s what I see, what came down is too easy
|
| Reflections to crumble or turn round
|
| Here’s what I need, but be proud, it’s too early
|
| For nothing to work out somehow
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| I am no breadwinner
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| I have no hands leading me somewhere
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| Confront my daily lie
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| It’s grown from frail to delirium |