| Scraping film away your eyes awake to quite the sight
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| A strobing TV static flares the neon motel light
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| A tray of ash so full
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| A candle burns at both it’s ends
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| A stack of empty bottles posing in the corner as your friends
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| This place is a scene and now you believe
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| This place is obscene, and you gotta leave
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| «Good Morning» sir the sirens plead as they go laughing by
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| Through the pane they bleed urgency inside
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| The smell of failed attempts and bad decisions
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| Now only to fill your lungs
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| The taste of bitter sweet guilt now resides on your tongue
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| This place is a scene and now you believe
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| Dig your bearings up from beneath the sweaty sheets
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| To find the scary freezing holy carpet at your feet
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| Rise away from last nights tomb to see more in the view
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| The resting place of many resonates the morning dew
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| Find yourself now reaching out for what is real
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| Your sense of self belongs in a few belongings you can feel
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| A broken necklace hugs a lonesome matchbook at the seams
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| An empty wallet shows a picture that you’ve never seen
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| This place is a scene and now you believe
|
| This place is obscene, and you gotta leave |