| Windows, doors, walls and carpets, chairs, tables and flowers, bread, wine
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| Butter and jam, fries, meat, beans and all spices
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| I’ve lost the taste of these things for two weeks now
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| I’m just waiting for a cup of dirty snow
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| Airports, railroad stations, highways, streets and foggy lines
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| Traffic, lights, cars and planes, boats, bicycles and walkers
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| Now I’m wondering, blind, in the city
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| I’m surrounded by towers, made of dirty snow
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| Faces, ears and bellies, backsides, legs, fingers and feet
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| Sweat, tears, dripping bodies, parties, someone is fucked up
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| Now I’m quiet in this snow, snowy country
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| I’m hanging on until I am old, just older than now |