| There are voices in the attic
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| Wispy whispers past the cabinets
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| Filled with tawny photographs
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| I am stolid, I am steadfast
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| Where there’s panic, lingers relapse
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| Oh, no; |
| those breakdown days are done
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| This house alive
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| I can hear the floorboards breathe
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| Creak, creak
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| Are these angels come to take me?
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| If so, I’ll wave my white flag willingly
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| I have shed my snake-skinned past
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| Clustered flies hinder the windows
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| For every angel there’s a devil
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| Oh no, make these voices go away
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| I was a God-fearing boy
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| Sure, I stumbled more than once
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| But so did his begotten son
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| An orphan, thrown out to the wolves
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| Not prodigal, far worse
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| I was hustled, I was scorned
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| Made a criminal…
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| But I stand here reformed
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| There are voices in the dead of night
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| A child screaming, «I am Gemini!»
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| Oh, what are you, and why?
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| Are you specter? |
| Are you spirit?
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| Am I lucid, am I losing it?
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| Oh no, this macabre facade
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| These walls, paper thin |