| I leave the house as soon as it gets light outside
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| Like a prisoner breaking out of jail
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| And I steal down to Business 15−501
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| Like I had a bounty hunter on my tail
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| And somebody stops to pick me up
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| But he drops me off just down the block
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| And along the highway where the empty spirits breathe
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| Wild sage growing in the weeds
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| Walked down the soft shoulder and I count my steps
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| Heading vaguely eastward, sun in my eyes
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| And I lose my footing and I skin my hands, breaking my fall
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| And I laugh to myself and look up at the skies
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| And then I think I hear angels in my ears
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| Like marbles being thrown against a mirror
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| And along the highway, where unlucky stray dogs bleed
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| Wild sage growing in the weeds
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| And some days I don’t miss my family
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| And some days I do
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| And some days I think I’d feel better if I tried harder
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| Most days I know it’s not true
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| I lay down right where I fell, cold grass in my face
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| And I hear the traffic like the rhythm of the tides
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| And I stare at the scrape on the heel of my hand
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| 'Til it doesn’t sting so much
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| And until the blood’s dried
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| And when somebody asks if I’m ok, I don’t know what to say
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| And along the highway, from cast-off, innumerable seeds
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| Wild sage growing in the weeds |