| There’s a shadow in the door-frame
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| With a hunger for the highway
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| The poison from the bee sting
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| The mirrors on the ceiling
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| The thunder and the lightning
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| The hibernating heart sings out
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| And I shake the hand of the seamstress
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| Pinning up the clouds like patches
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| A little bit blue around the edges
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| Hanging all the quilts from the ceilings
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| Another room, another day, another season
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| Another feeling
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| Another reason to call me a liar
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| Standing in the park beside the fire
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| Stepping over lines that I had drawn there
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| There’s a quiet conversation
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| A discarded invitation
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| A statue on the fountain
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| A molehill on the mountain
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| A river through the kitchen
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| We’re swimming in basement now
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| And I met the ghost in the mirror
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| Gave me quite a fright but I came nearer
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| Told me all his secrets in a whisper
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| And I had my palm read by the psychic weather reporter
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| Said he was a wicked fortune-teller
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| Gazing at the glowing teleprompter |