| «Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at dawn, travel round in front
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| of the sun, steal a day’s march on him. |
| Keep it up for ever never grow a day
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| older technically.» |
| --James Joyce, Ulysses
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| Waking up with the sunrise
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| Running fast enough to the west
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| Forever fallow your shadow
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| Never allowing it to shorten
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| It’s a youth without ever ending
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| It’s a death with nothing to show
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| Just a life spent negating
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| Screaming no, no, not what I wanted at all
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| In between the two letters
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| The firsts in the alphabet
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| Navigating the expanse
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| Separating them on a map
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| Is a swamp covered over in water
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| Overgrown over sediment
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| That’ll bury a traveller
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| Sinking slow slow slow till it’s all overhead
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| Down down down
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| So we fight to flee towards the lives that we wanted
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| Leave behind all the murdered air
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| Then find we aren’t what we were when we started
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| Lost, old, removed from the things we once cared
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| How those years start to weigh
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| How the reflexes slow
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| How the passionate days
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| Grow increasingly dull
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| There is so much to say
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| When the tide is out low
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| But it is trite it is vain
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| When the moon starts to pull
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| There’s a space in the seam between hate sewn to love
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| And I know what it means to live in the undone
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| When you’ve stopped your retreat but you’re unsure at what
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| You want to re-raise your gun
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| If you should re-raise your gun
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| I’ve been lost in between all the gaps separating the atoms
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| I’ve been trapped in the billboard fonts lining the highways
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| All I want is the middle distance
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| Where the solids have definition
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| To risk defeat find meaning without just running away |