| In your room, stuck in a heat
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| As if the power of the sun
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| Was all being spent in one noon
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| You woke with your head the wrong end of the bed
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| You stair at the phone as it rings
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| But right now two yards is two yards too far for you
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| And you feel the summer burning little holes in every sense
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| That you’ve got and you’ve seen the ceiling turning
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| On a dark ride that won’t let you off
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| In your room, high above the streets
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| Your patience is stretched snap taut as a drum
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| Soon don’t mean soon, it just slips off her tongue
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| And the waiting makes statues that crack when she comes
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| And you shake. |
| .. you need her to come
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| And you feel something burning, it’s your dignity
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| It’s seen how far you can fall and you feel
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| The hours turning into centuries full of nothing at all
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| In your room, alone on the sheets
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| Skin so pale it glows opaque in the night
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| Dawn will soon come, the darkness be gone
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| Along with the crutches it takes to feel strong
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| Still your fear will be dragged into the light
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| And deep down inside you are burning
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| With the hatred of what you’ve become
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| And you fear that you’re turning into something instead of someone
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| Room 83, it’s the one you never leave
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| It’s a little piece of hell, your Spanish hotel |