| Oh, the empires calling,
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| Trying to hear his voice,
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| While he’s preaching to the choir,
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| And that choir is death and noise.
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| And he closes up his fist, and he sees if they exist.
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| Angels with broken wings,
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| Melodic harmonies she sings.
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| She brings you white daffodils,
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| You place them on your windowsill.
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| Then you open up your fist, and you see if they exist.
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| Well you sit in dark forests,
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| You’ve been there for quite a while.
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| And when they come to take you,
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| You just sit and smile.
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| You say, «Hey, you take this. |
| I’m gonna see if you exist.»
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| Oh it’s time to leave here,
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| And I still have my knife,
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| And it’s pressed up against my body,
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| Tonights gonna be the night.
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| And I cut my own wrist, just to see if I exist. |