| Drifting in sleepless nightmares
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| Haunted by poisoned dreams
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| Washing your hands in the water
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| But the hands will never be clean
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| Now you pay the price
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| Your dreams drenched in blood
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| Now you realize
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| You have gone too far
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| Claws of madness
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| Holding your brain as they take you away
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| To the other
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| Side of sorrow
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| Where you pay what you owe
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| Claws of madness
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| Never ending pain drives you insane
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| You want to
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| Leave this world now
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| Death is kind you will find
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| Smile in the face of evil
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| Watching your life go by
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| Washing your hands in the water
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| God knows how you try
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| Whispers in your mind
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| Voices from far away
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| Can you hear them calling
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| Names from far away
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| After the suicide of his wife and companion in treason Macbeth must understand
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| that Macduff has finally succeeded and put together an army large in numbers
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| and determined to overthrow the tyrant — to purify the Scottish crown from the
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| blood that was she’d for it… His men flee from him… Leaving him alone with
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| his anger… His doubts and his sorrow…
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| Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day
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| to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted
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| fools the way to dusty death. |
| Out, out, brief candle. |
| Life’s but a walking
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| shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
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| and then is heard no more. |
| It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and
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| fury, signifying nothing |