| I lay around this stillborn Sunday
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| The nameless, graceless wreck you leave in me
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| I stood silent at your waking theater
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| Deluded and grotesque, I hemorrhage history
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| But I won’t be visited again
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| By the ghosts of things that never came to be
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| I won’t let my heart settle in
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| To the fallow soil that sprawls out
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| From the fringes of the swaying Salton Sea
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| We let their hurried beat busy our bones
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| But our tempo tempered hearts are always idle
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| We drink the water from their fountain
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| This place could never be the things that we both need
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| No, this place could never be the things that we both need
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| And I want the things that I can’t have
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| And I need to find a new way out
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| And I will crawl out from the wreckage of my past
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| And we’ll fall head first and weary of
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| The place we’ve hung our hats for all these years
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| Wait for the night, we’ll disappear
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| But I won’t be visited again
|
| By the ghosts of things that never came to be
|
| I won’t let my heart settle in
|
| To the fallow soil that sprawls out
|
| From the fringes of the swaying Salton Sea |