| You’ll never know me without a seizure at age four:
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| Absent eyes, ambulance ride, life: a closing door
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| No, it doesn’t work like that:
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| We don’t lose ourselves in other people’s worlds
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| «We» is always «me» and you’ll never know
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| Sterile smell, fever state, the spirit’s sprawl across the floor
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| Brain that’s dyed, breakout of hives, grief for their first born
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| No, it doesn’t work like that:
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| Experiences press heavy against life
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| I know that «we» is always «me» and you’ll never know
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| «Go toward the enormous absence of form that is sleep.»
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| No, we don’t grow closer:
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| Weighed down, honest face from others we all hide
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| I know, «we» is always «me» and I’ll never know
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| You’ll never know me if you haven’t known the sound
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| Of paramedics in the house, carrying your father down:
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| His slurry speech, his fearful eyes, half his face a drooping frown
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| Your fearful heart and your relief to find he’s still around
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| «Go toward the enormous absence of form that is sleep»
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| You’ll never know me if you haven’t tasted tears
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| Over mother’s youngest sister and your best friend, it’s so clear:
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| At all times, in every moment, death blows in the air
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| She cries in soup, I lie awake knowing someday we’ll be there |