| Too seldom sanguine,
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| Always crying over closed doors
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| You should feel like you should,
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| You should feel like you should adapt well with a wistful heart
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| I could never take it, but I’ll give you your breath back
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| Infants and whales still have the holes there, never proving to be born on time
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| You keep your eyes to the light between finger and thumb
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| And the sky just laughs as I stare at the grass,
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| The sun, the green, I want the snow years ago
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| I’ll say it about routine
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| I can’t wait, I can’t wait
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| I want the genes
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| I want the era before me
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| I want ideas as imprints
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| I want the future, I want the future
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| I want your mistakes, what we were,
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| What I was, what I’ll be, what we’ll see
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| Hunters only stop to see the scenery when they’ve caught up,
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| Watching what we have in common that makes us the men some love
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| I’m not telling you who the rhythm is from,
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| Something to look forward to «while I’m young»
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| One day at a time, I’ll never say anything when no one is looking
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| I’ll be so old, finally seeing
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| Picking right days as they come
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| Learning days said like this
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| As purses and sheaths |