| I can feel it on my tongue
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| Brick and mortar as thick as scripture
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| Drawing lines in the sand and laying borders as tall as towers
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| I babble on until my voice is gone
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| This hill I’ll die on is about 90 meters of bricks
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| Colored indigo, inscribed with my name, and lined with cedar
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| But the words fall flat like cymbals crashing
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| Like molars gnashing
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| 'Cause like constellations a million years away
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| Every good intention, every good intention
|
| Is interpolation, a line we drew in the array
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| Looking for the faces
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| Looking for the shapes in the silence
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| All that’s left for me to climb to the heavens is the chasm of the night
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| And a matter of time
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| But I hear the rumble
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| As the tectonic plates start to shake
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| And I feel my blood pounding like the beat of a drum
|
| 'Cause like constellations a million years away
|
| Every good intention, every good intention
|
| Is interpolation, a line we drew in the array
|
| Clinging to the faces
|
| Clinging to the shapes in the silence
|
| Like constellations imploding in the night
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| Everything is turning, everything is turning
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| And the shapes that you drew may change beneath a different light
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| And everything you thought you knew will fall apart, but you’ll be all right |