| You are the product of a happenstance
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| Your father’s eyes and your mother’s hands
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| You dream about the other side of the road
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| And you hold it close
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| While you hold the wheel close
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| Antiseptic analytical mind
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| With your steel-toed boots and your boots in a line
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| Don’t want to hit the road and go coast to coast
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| It’s what you want the most
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| To fantasize your ghost
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| I’m counting the days, acquiring the taste
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| I’m sick of looking at the stupid look on your face
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| Out in the desert, you buried your wine
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| And you looked at the roots and you made up your mind
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| You want to resurrect it from the dream that awoke you
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| And spoke from your shoulder and said, «You are no one»
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| You had a notion to keep killing time
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| But the clock is a wreck and you’ve already died
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| So leave it all behind and like the others before you
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| Just walk out the door and don’t tell them goodbye
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| Ah, where is the fun in feeding the beast?
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| I’m running from the one with the symmetrical teeth
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| I’m counting the days, acquiring the taste
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| I’m sick of looking at the stupid look on your face
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| I’m counting the days
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| I’m losing my way
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| I’m counting the days
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| I’m sick of looking at the stupid look on your face |