| Sing me like a lullaby
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| Read me like a book
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| You can steal me in an art fraud heist
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| Just tuck me underneath your coat
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| And if you want to load me on the reel
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| And blare a blinding light through me
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| I’ll be a silent film and you’ll play the organ
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| To go with the pictures I show
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| When can I feel my skin again
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| As more than between blood and air?
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| I am what you tell me I am
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| You make me an endless text, and
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| You are my projectionist
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| Give me like a war-time speech
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| And fight me like a war
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| Invade me like the Middle East
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| Just bounce me off the satellites
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| But the picture’s out of focus now
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| The blackout’s all over town
|
| So make me now a candle, bright
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| And push me through the powerlines
|
| But when can I feel my skin again
|
| As more than between blood and air?
|
| I am what you tell me I am
|
| You make me an endless text, and
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| I am what you think of next, and
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| You are my projectionist
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| Shine a light through me so you can see
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| Sing me in a different key, well
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| I’m your diary, who’s reading who now?
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| And who’s in whose skin?
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| Turn on your TV, broadcast me
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| Everywhere I want to be
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| I lift up a rock and find me there
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| When can I feel my skin again
|
| As more than between blood and air?
|
| I am what you tell me I am
|
| You make me an endless text, and
|
| I am what you think of next, and
|
| You make me an endless text, and
|
| I am what you think of next, and
|
| You make me an endless text, and
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| I am what you think of next
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| In the burning theater I am blessed
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| For you are my projectionist |