| The city has sex with itself, I suppose
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| As the concrete collides while the scenery grows
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| And the lonely, once bandaged, lay fully exposed
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| Having undressed their wounds for each other
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| And there’s a boy in a basement with a four-track machine
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| He’s been strumming and screaming all night, down there
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| The tape hiss will cover the words that he sings
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| They say it’s better to bury your sadness
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| In a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring to
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| Awake from its sleep
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| And burst into green
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| Well I’ve cried
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| And you’d think I’d be better for it
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| But the sadness just sleeps, and it stays in my spine
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| For the rest of my life
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| And I’ve learned and you’d think I’d be something more now
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| But it just goes to show it is not what you know
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| It is what you were thinking
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| At the time
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| This feeling’s familiar, I’ve been here before
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| In a kitchen this quiet I waited for
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| A sign or just something that might reassure me of anything close To meaning or
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| motion with a reason to move
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| I need something I want to be close to
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| And I scream
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| But I still don’t know why I do it
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| Because the sound never stays, it just swells and decays
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| So what is the point?
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| Why try to fight what is now so certain?
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| The truth is all that I am is a passing event
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| That will be forgotten |