| The path in her brain gets rewarded again
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| Where it hardens and strengthens in a looping refrain
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| And masked spectres of the past reveal themselves against her will
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| To slide in this moment, alive again pro tem
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| There’s an endless expanding drawn in the eyes
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| A soul decomposing, a body alive
|
| Rosalie lives, lives on her own
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| Scared like a german shepherd, in the back of the yard
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| Wait til morning, cares coming by
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| Changing her clothes, listening to
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| Odd things, throw the cereal on the ceiling
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| Stretched screams, shallow skin, swollen feet
|
| Rosalie lives, lives with her own
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| Home like a TV sitcom, and her kids in the car
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| Wait til nighttime, see her again, hollow and thin
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| Wading through
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| Odd things, throw the cereal on the ceiling
|
| Stretched screams, swollen speech, void of meaning
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| Sad scenes can be beared, can be handled
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| No thing keeps me up, keeps us screaming
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| It’s the hardest part, the hardest part
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| Just a relentless regress |