| Sometimes I get the feeling that this really never was my home
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| A 1957 kind of heaven sent remote control
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| A boring bird a bitter word a re-recurring picture show
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| We watch together tracking weather barely tethered from below
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| We hover high an open eye to always see just where we are
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| The subdivisions subdividing and colliding bare their scars
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| A washing dish a ripping stitch nothing is missing no one’s far
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| Wind up cloud wind up sky
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| Sees the rain turn to snow
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| Sees the rain turn to snow again
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| There is no more to know here
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| There is nothing more to know here
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| Our wings are urgently diverging feeling set upon the sun
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| Our welded skeletons are relatively ready to be gone
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| The cities merge the lights converge the buzzing blurs into a single sigh
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| Wind up cloud wind up sky
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| Sees the rain turn to snow
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| Sees the rain turn to snow again
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| There is no more to know here
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| There is nothing more to know here
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| See the satellite, See the satellite
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| See the satellite, See the satellite seceding
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| See the satellite, See the satellite
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| See the satellite, See the satellite seceding
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| Here in the headlights, Here in the headlights
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| Here in the headlights, Here in the headlights
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| At a haunted height, At a haunted height
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| At a haunted height, At a haunted height
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| We roll our eyes back up into our heads |