| I remember looking around a hospital waiting room
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| Full of people all absorbed in their own personal catastrophes
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| All reading books like Being Mortal, all with a look in their eyes
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| And I remember still feeling like, «No, no one can understand»
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| «No, my devastation is unique»
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| But people get cancer and die
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| People get hit by trucks and die
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| People just living their lives
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| Get erased for no reason
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| With the rest of us watching from the side
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| And some people have to survive
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| And find a way to feel lucky to still be alive
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| To sleep through the night
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| I wrote down all the details of how my house fell apart
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| How the person I loved got killed by a bad disease
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| Out of nowhere for no reason and me living in the blast zone
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| With our daughter and etcetera
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| I made these songs
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| And the next thing I knew I was standing in the dirt
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| Under the desert sky at night outside Phoenix
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| At a music festival that had paid to fly me in
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| To play these death songs to a bunch of young people on drugs
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| Standing in the dust next to an idling bus
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| With Skrillex inside and the sound of subwoofers in the distance
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| I had stayed up til three
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| Talking to Weyes Blood and Father John Misty
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| About songwriting in the backstage bungalows
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| Eating fruit and jumping on the bed like lost children
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| Exploding across the earth in a self-indulgent all-consuming
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| Wreck of ideas that blot out the stars
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| To be still alive felt so absurd
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| People get cancer and die
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| People get hit by trucks and die
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| People just living their lives get erased for no reason
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| With the rest of us averting our eyes
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| When I was leaning on Skrillex’s tour bus waiting for the hotel shuttle in the
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| middle of the night
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| I barely knew who I was
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| I looked up and saw Orion wielding a club and a shield
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| And there you were again:
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| Majestic dead wife
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| As my grief becomes calcified, frozen in stories
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| And in these songs I keep singing, numbing it down
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| The unsingable real memories of you
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| And the feral eruptions of sobbing
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| These waves hit less frequently
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| They thin and then they are gone
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| You are gone and then your echo is gone
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| And then the crying is gone
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| And what is left but this merchandise?
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| This is what my life feels like now
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| Like I got abruptly dropped off by the side of the road
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| In the middle of a long horrible ride
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| In a hot van that was too full of confident chattering dudes
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| And the sound of tires receding
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| Taking in the night air I say:
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| «Now only» |