| Yes, we met in a bar, it was 1991
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| We talked music, we talked about movies we saw
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| And you wrote your name and number on a white paper towel
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| That night I flew home over all of Stockholm's shiny roofs
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| The whole city was changed, the rain had a different taste
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| I remember the days in bed when you read aloud to me
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| And I always knew that the end was near
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| 25 years since that fall
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| And see you in Griffith Park
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| And we take pictures up on the mountain
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| Same love, same gap
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| And you fall asleep by my side
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| So close, but no
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| I never really reached you
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| Yes, you came from Charles de Gaulle with the very last flight of the evening
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| You were club and cathedral, Henry Morgan and Sebastian Flyte
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| And I rented out my apartment and got a room with you
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| And our city it was so bare and austere and anorexic then
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| But with you, everyone got to be among the Art Nouveau and among the Rococo
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| You said "life is yours, it can be lived in so many ways"
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| And I saw beauty and death, all in their own right
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| And you spoke, and I listened
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| And it was something like crooked
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| After six months I was alone
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| In your floor of 103
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| I've been following you through the nights
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| From Paris, Rome and Marseille
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| But I never really reached you
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| No, I never really reached you
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| To you
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| Yes, you could always say what was wrong with me
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| Too sensitive, aggressive, too bad at joining
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| And in the dreams, I hit hard without disturbing you
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| You can not be closer to others than you are to yourself
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| You can not be closer to others than you are to yourself
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| When she said that for the first time, I became cold as a river from Norrland
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| I think you loved me until I started thinking for myself
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| 45 years since I was born
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| And see you at my party
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| And you're kidding and you're loud
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| And you're leaking toxic gas
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| I'm pounded, I've appealed
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| And measures far from okay
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| Because I never really reached you
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| I never really reached you
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| No, I never really reached you
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| To you, to you |