| What’s the difference from a Saturday night
|
| Where the light spreads dark around the drunk hearts
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| In their headless hallways where bodies are
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| Put on the market place
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| To happiness endlessly taking pills
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| With the young going down
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| I see nothing or nowhere
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| I know what I’ve found
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| Must be in paradise
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| Next year we will live in the country
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| With our money, by day the sky builds
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| Doing our laundry and renting us some random machines
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| Getting our religion and sex on the TV
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| Assumptions made simply to get away
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| Everyone old is already with me
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| On tiny decks enjoying midsummer weather and friendly company
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| And in their picture frames there you and I will be
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| Knowing what we’ve found
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| Enough to get away
|
| Knowing what we’ve found
|
| Enough to get away
|
| Knowing what we’ve found
|
| Enough to get away
|
| Knowing what we’ve found
|
| Enough to get away
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| Bright drops of blood so my thoughts are
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| I turn to lie down but sleep stays far
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| I’m just an echo of the song going through my head
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| The light behides the ghost
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| But I’m the one that’s dead
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| And I think of who you be
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| When you’re here with me
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| Maybe it’s a spiritual disease
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| Sliding through shoots of oblivion into infinity
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| Back into our maker’s hands
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| No more rain or controversy
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| Knowing what we’ve found
|
| Enough to get away
|
| Knowing what we’ve found
|
| Enough to get away
|
| Knowing what we’ve found
|
| Enough to get away
|
| Knowing what we’ve found
|
| Enough to get away |