| Angela carter puts down her typewriter
|
| And stares at the snow
|
| Her bones getting brittle, hair turning whiter
|
| Such a long way to go Counting the stars in the sky
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| Wondering just where we are
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| Dreaming that you didnt die
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| Morning isnt that far
|
| She lives in her own world
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| She lives in her own world
|
| Tiny little toyshop, playing with fireworks
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| She set fire to the thames
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| Nights at the circus, an army of lovers
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| Like lightning to her friends
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| Indian river runs deep
|
| Plunging right off of the page
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| Are you awake or asleep
|
| You think I would know by this stage
|
| Angela carter puts down her typewriter
|
| And stares at the snow
|
| Her bones getting brittle, hair turning whiter
|
| Such a long way to go Reflections distorted by time
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| Mirrors corrupted by youth
|
| Now that you dont have to lie
|
| Why dont you tell us the truth |