| Look at this mess, he thought he was cheatin' God
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| She leaves in the autumn, his face like a beaten dog
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| Now he’s become everything that you hate
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| He’s just in time to be too late
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| His friends are like snowflakes, his lies are confessions
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| Behold the old man and his ruined possessions
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| He can’t play guitar but he does try very hard
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| Pens from hotel rooms, old library cards
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| Photos and whatnots, blood in his boots
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| Sun in his eyes, an anchor instead of roots
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| Clocks on every wall, fish in the ocean
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| Solitude, faith, suspicion, commotion
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| The hole in his stomach tastes like words
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| He dreams and imagines his face like hers
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| He knows he can’t live without his greatest fears
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| And nothing’s more beautiful than a woman’s tears
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| Cardboard boxes full of regrets
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| He feeds his remorse like you feed your pets
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| Voices in his head that all said live a day
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| But the look in his eyes makes him a dead giveaway
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| The bough that he breaks, the line that he draws
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| He fell in love with the ugliness that nobody saw
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| As close as he came, as far as he stood
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| He loved her with his mouth as hard as he could
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| Most people change when they enter the door
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| They walk home from work and remember the war
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| He’s digging a ditch, spent the day piling
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| Dirt until it hurt and went away smiling
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| Alone and heartbroken, just the way he likes it
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| Only the loneliness knows him wholly
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| And nothing seems to work, wrong everywhere
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| He watches her brushing her long, heavy hair |