| Falling through pages of Martens on angels
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| Feeling my heart pull west
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| I saw the future dressed as a stranger
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| Love in a space-dye vest
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| Love is an act of blood and I’m bleeding
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| A pool in the shape of a heart
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| Beauty projection in the reflection
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| Always the worst way to start
|
| «But he’s the sort who can’t know anyone intimately, least of all a woman.
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| He doesn’t know what a woman is. |
| He wants you for a possession,
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| something to look at like a painting or an ivory box. |
| Something to own and to
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| display. |
| He doesn’t want you to be real, or to think, or to live.
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| He doesn’t love you, but I love you. |
| I want you to have your own thoughts and
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| ideas and feelings, even when I hold you in my arms. |
| It’s our last chance…
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| It’s our last chance…»
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| Now that you’re gone I’m trying to take it
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| Learning to swallow the rage
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| Found a new girl I think we can make it
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| As long as she stays on the page
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| This is not how I want it to end
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| And I’ll never be open again
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| «…I was gonna move out… ummm…get, get a job, get my own place, ummm. |
| But…
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| I go into the mall where I want to work and they tell me, I’m, I was too young.
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| «Some people gave advice before about facing the facts, about facing reality.
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| And this is, this without a doubt, is his biggest challenge ever.
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| He’s going to have to face it. |
| You’re going to have to try, he’s gonna to have
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| to try and uh, and, and, and get some help here. |
| I mean no one can say they
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| know how he feels.»
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| «That, so they say that, in ya know like, Houston or something, you’d say it’s
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| a hundred and eighty degrees. |
| But it’s a dry heat. |
| In Houston they say that?
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| Oh, maybe not. |
| I’m all mixed up. |
| Dry until they hit the swimming pool.»
|
| «…I get up with the sun… Listen. |
| You have your own room to sleep in.
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| I don’t care what you do. |
| I don’t care when. |
| That door gets locked.
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| That door gets locked at night by nine o’clock. |
| If you’re not in this house by
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| nine o’clock, then you’d better find some place to sleep. |
| Because you’re not
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| going to be a bum in this house. |
| Supper is ready…»
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| There’s no one to take my blame
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| If they wanted to
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| There’s nothing to keep me sane
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| And it’s all the same to you
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| There’s nowhere to set my aim
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| So I’m everywhere
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| Never come near me again
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| Do you really think I need you?
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| I’ll never be open again
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| I could never be open again
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| I’ll never be open again
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| I could never be open again
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| And I’ll smile and I’ll learn to pretend
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| And I’ll never be open again
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| And I’ll have no more dreams to defend
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| And I’ll never be open again |