| In conduits we drift apart
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| There is vastness within and all around us
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| Though we may deny ourselves the thought
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| That this was something real
|
| I can finally say that I’m not dead yet
|
| There are no chains as tight as the search for something real
|
| How they burn the skin of the vehement
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| Both last known bodies of matter, drifting into themselves
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| We’re caught in the in the teeth of our own temper
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| We are what we consume
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| You create what you are
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| Appeal, on which the ground you stand
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| Appeal, in the throes of death
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| Appeal, in a delirium of sleep
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| Appeal, for our strength is gone
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| Spoken by a man unbound
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| Taught beneath the hands in shackles
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| It has invited a scourge
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| What makes you think you give of anything at all?
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| The killer hides his face
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| The stoic waits his turn
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| We all had our chance
|
| Apparitions show themselves deep within ruminative voice
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| It is man himself who speaks at length of wars that go unnoticed
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| And it is truly all you have
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| No blueprints, no warning |