| We build utopian empires
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| We construct policy
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| Slumped over on bar stools
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| Stumbling through the streets
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| We are dreaming in vacuums
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| Where there’s no gravity
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| All the words that we say never hold any weight
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| They are polished, they’re perfect, pristine
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| Show cars on the street
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| Singing tongues over rhythm
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| Always searching for words
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| I’m alone in the backseat
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| In communion with chords
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| Tightened strings over fret boards
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| Transcend the distance of stars
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| But the light that’s received is distant history
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| The present still lost in the dark
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| The downtown is deserted for suburbs and strip malls
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| The country inverted lit up by a cell phone
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| I’m mindlessly scrolling through numbers I won’t ever choose
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| 'Cause I can’t call you
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| I wish I could call you
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| There is a dim light that shines from the opposite side of the lake
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| A haze over water, that something I can’t quite attain
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| There is a canvas whose blankness is screaming, keeps me awake
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| I am wrong, I am flawed, but I am saved
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| So it’s cheap beer and late nights just sitting outside talking dreams
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| That’s how I remember it
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| It’s blood always making its way to the tiniest veins
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| That’s how I remember it
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| I woke on the floor of a stranger’s apartment
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| Refilled pockets with spilled change
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| I walked out the front door into the descending rain
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| Occupying the empty space
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| Between the lines filling history’s
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| Pages of war, kings, of famine, and fortune
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| The leaders, the fallen, magnificent chosen
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| Though I am a drop in the largest of oceans
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| Through unceasing motion
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| I’ll cling to the constants
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| Sunrise and the sunset
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| Tempered yet unquiet
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| With fists buried in pockets |