| Oh, I recall the last morning
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| The sun would rise on the race of man
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| After which it was clear nothing would be the same again
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| When called to answer for their crimes
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| The only response that they could find
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| Was that it seemed to be a good idea at the time
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| Now the sun in the sky has turned to rust
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| The rivers are running red with blood
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| And the cries of the helpless were never, never enough
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| And those of us who were still alive
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| Were rightly afraid to go outside
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| When VuBu said, «This isn’t shoegaze — this is suicide.»
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| Then they came with torches and pitchforks
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| Carrying guns, clubs and sharp swords
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| When the loudest voice I ever heard said, «It's over.»
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| It’s over!
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| «And I, too, felt ready to start life all over again. |
| It was as if that great
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| rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the
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| dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first,
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| I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe.
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| To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I’d been
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| happy, and that I was happy still. |
| For all to be accomplished, for me to feel
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| less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution
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| there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with
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| howls of execration.» |