| The line runs through like a train in a book
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| Or meters underwater, ending with a hook
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| Sways in the air when there’s wind enough to lift
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| The fine ones are boundaries when there is a rift
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| I’m just pulling on a line, on a line
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| Oh I’m just pulling on a line
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| I’m just pulling on a line, on a line
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| But sometimes it pulls on me
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| The line, it inks across the freshly fallen snow
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| Where only those embracing coldness would go
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| In whistles and in whispers and sometimes in howls
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| It sings to me sweetly from trees and in vowels
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| I’m just pulling on a line, on a line
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| Oh I’m just pulling on a line
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| I’m just pulling on a line, on a line
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| But sometimes it pulls on me
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| The line, it writes itself across the dark sky
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| In the air, electric flashes ending with a sigh
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| It weaves itself into a fabric so true
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| And flows just like the river, graceful and blue
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| I’m just pulling on a line, on a line
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| Oh I’m just pulling on a line
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| I’m just pulling on a line, on a line
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| But sometimes it pulls on me |