| The neighborhood is lining up again
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| The local food bazaar filled to the brim
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| The sky, a grey light drizzle but quite calm
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| Pedestrians stream home before the storm
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| I’m a dot
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| A particle, free
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| I’m waiting for the surge from the sea
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| The wind picks up
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| And brushes down the track
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| Each raindrop, a pinprick on my back
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| And so i stop by brother mark’s
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| To stay the night with friends
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| I pour 4 whiskeys on the rocks
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| He cooks beneath the dimly lit kitchen clock
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| All the while we talk of hurricanes
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| Back in houston then — canoeing in the rain
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| Laura drops
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| Her finger in the sauce
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| She says it’s good for all of us to eat
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| So we stop
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| Enough to hear the knock
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| Swaying branches and raindrops in sheets
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| Tapping on the top
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| Wrapping us in breeze
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| The night i spend sleeping on the floor
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| In and out of sleep — a room with no door
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| The tree outside projects a silhouette
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| And bends back and fourth like a blade of grass
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| I’m up
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| So i walk down the hall
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| I watch my friends sleeping sound
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| And i stop long enough
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| To spread my thoughts around |
| I awake to the sound of breakfast bells
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| So i guess that means the battery held
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| We take a camera down on the street
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| Among the limbs freshly cracked at our
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| The air is clean
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| The trains still at a halt
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| The boarded up windows on the block
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| Sit so serene
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| The calming aftermath
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| The entrails of the midnight bath
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| And of course we’re holding hands
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| Or at least thinking like that |