| I fell down thirty feet of stairs
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| Landed in a hole buried under cloak
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| And as I grow, I tried to let this go
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| But I cannot hide under half-shut eyes
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| And I feel it calling me again
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| In winter ice, I stand
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| And I feel it calling me again
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| So what will it take
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| To make this finally the end?
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| Carving snow, I found myself a glove
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| So I took it home and my body, mind and soul
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| We’re draped in robes like soft and flowing tones
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| Through a combo and quarter cranked again
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| And this time I follow my own lines
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| And I feel it calling me again
|
| In winter ice, I stand
|
| I feel it calling me again
|
| So what will it take
|
| To make this finally the end?
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| It’s the breaking point, the crossed out
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| The fine lines they hide, the lies
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| Medicine, crooked ties define
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| I am not who you thought you liked
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| It’s the breaking point, the crossed out
|
| The fine lines they hide, the lies
|
| Medicine, crooked ties define
|
| I am not who you thought you liked
|
| It’s the breaking point, the crossed out
|
| The fine lines they hide, the lies
|
| Medicine, crooked ties define
|
| I am not who you thought you liked |