| These days I mainly just talk to plants and dogs-
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| All human contact seems painful, risky, odd,
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| So I stay acting god in my own universe
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| Where I trade cigarettes in return for songs.
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| The deal’s made harder the longer I go on:
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| I find me gone from all but the secret languages.
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| If only I could phrase satisfactory words
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| In conversation to make my passion heard…
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| If only…
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| Meurglys III, he’s my friend,
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| The only one that I can trust
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| To let it be without pretence
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| -there's no-one else.
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| It’s killing me, but in the end
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| There’s no-one else I know is true;
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| There’s none in all the masks of men.
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| There’s nothing else
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| but my guitar…
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| I suppose he’ll have to do.
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| Talking in tongues is easy when you know how,
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| Quite pleasing, but still nothing works out right.
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| Pressurised lungs, heart bleeding, you’d better slow down
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| And show that you can make it through the night.
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| However dark it seems, the present is just the present,
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| Beyond it no future darkness lies concealed
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| And through these desperate dreams,
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| This longing for friends and comfort
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| You know that in the end all will be revealed.
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| When no more plants or dogs or rooms are there
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| to hear you
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| And no-one is left near you, then you’ll see:
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| In the end there’s only you and Meurglys III
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| and this is just what you chose to be,
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| fool!
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| Though I know all this is just escape,
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| I run because I don’t know where the prison lies.
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| In songs like this I can bear the weight…
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| I’m running still
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| I shall until
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| one day I hope that I’ll arrive. |