| Oh, a warm hello
|
| Would be apropos
|
| We haven’t spoke in several weeks
|
| But solitude tends to be the mood
|
| So you probably won’t hear from me
|
| And there was once relief in the changing trees
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| The contrails that cut the sky
|
| But pre-arranged circumstances change
|
| And I’d be lying if I said I’m fine
|
| Catch her in the switchbacks in the line
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| Switching back to Central Standard Time
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| Each day slightly more resigned
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| Trying to make some sense of life
|
| So if we take off
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| You could quit your day job
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| We’d call ourselves the Angel Youth
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| You’ll find us traveling and making tunes
|
| But then I think of
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| All the people we’ve loved
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| How they’ll be growing older soon
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| How it’s true for me and you
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| So I convalesced in the middle west
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| And fell for Ohio’s roads
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| I’m standing still by the windowsill
|
| Where I once watched the world explode
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| So when it’s looking dark in your narrative arc
|
| I’m here and you can talk with me
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| A hackneyed fool under fascist rule
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| Wasting days singing about his dreams
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| All of which has lead me to believe
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| Earth’s a set and life’s the movie screen
|
| And every dream that you have in-between
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| They’ll fade with every frame you see
|
| Oh, is it self-hate?
|
| I wish I was in L. A
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| Far from all the roads we knew
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| Unworried where we’re going through
|
| So if we take off
|
| You could quit your day job
|
| We’d call upon the Angel Youth
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| We’re coming to a town near you
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| Lonely and outraged
|
| Guess for now that I’ll wait
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| For generation Angel Youth
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| To point me towards a higher truth
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| It’s on the off-chance
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| We never come to cross hands
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| 'Cause it’s too late to not pretend
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| And I’d for all of this to end
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| Just glad that I could be your friend |