| We all sit on the curb
|
| And we stare at the rain in our boots
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| The car, the clouds, the sky
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| While Ishmael wraps himself in the sheet again
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| He’ll clench the fists and close his eyes
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| I don’t know how many times
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| I can loan him my cigarettes
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| When I don’t even know if he’s alive
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| Do prophets lie?
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| It makes me feel less horrified
|
| And my closet’s filled with
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| All these endless accouterments
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| These shoes, these scars
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| These shirts, these ties
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| And these things I say to make myself feel good again
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| I’ll speak, I’ll write, I’ll laugh, I’ll lie
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| I can’t bear to sit here and drink myself sick again
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| Another night
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| When everything I know was just a lie
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| And I don’t even know where I’ll sleep tonight
|
| I got nothing to do but stare at these walls
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| And take some time to screw my head on right
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| We all ended up alone, wasted here at Silver Lake
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| We’ll work, we’ll feed, we’ll change, we’ll try
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| I can’t make any sense of this or you or anything
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| I’m wide awake, and all our parents lied
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| It’s not alright, and all our words collide
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| Awake all night |