| A terrible man, a desperate
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| attempt to make amends
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| wrote a song for a girl or
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| could not but just imagined,
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| about something he read
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| once, about static and
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| distance, but he just simply
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| could not without feeling
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| terribly vain and incredibly
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| distant, about recent
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| encounters, about love and
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| affliction, ziplocks and plastic
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| containers, the gentleness
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| of her kisses,
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| about the possible cancer
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| that has manifested in
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| the mirror far right of his
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| forehead, about a world that
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| could never be kind, never
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| be kind, never be kind, never
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| be kind, about the taste of
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| tree sap, about growing old,
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| about his fear of the cold and
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| the darkness at age 27 and
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| how foolish does that make
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| him, bundled up in the cold,
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| afraid of the dark at age 27,
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| a song for a girl, he knew
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| he’d never quite finish, in the
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| drunk breath of Autumn, in
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| all its glory and strangeness,
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| we can hide, we can hide,
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| we can hide, we can hide,
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| you are mine, you are mine,
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| you are mine, you are mine. |