| Through wires and waves, our voices carry
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| Such careful words that we can barely speak out loud
|
| We found an ocean when we needed land
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| We drowned in words when we needed a hand
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| So we plead for night, and the sun keeps on spilling light
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| There’s a fine line, a fine line in between
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| Our progress and our instability
|
| We can’t help ourselves but hunt for more
|
| A design flaw? |
| or the olive branch that proves the shore-
|
| The catalyst we’ve waited for
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| We live and die under the thumb of fear
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| As though the finish line will merely disappear
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| If we take one less step, even to catch our breath
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| We once felt safe, like no cure was needed
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| Our vocabularies had no room for «defeated,»
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| But we grew up quick and became connoisseurs of it
|
| There’s a fine line, a fine line in between
|
| Our progress and our instability
|
| We can’t help ourselves but hunt for more
|
| A design flaw? |
| or the olive branch that proves the shore-
|
| The catalyst we’ve waited for |