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Typing letters to the dead |
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Late at night on a closed piano lid |
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She circles past She fills your glass |
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But she don't recognise the song |
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And once in a life time she says |
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The waking life |
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Stitched together in your head |
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Well, what if it's only worth |
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The bundle of nerves it's written on? |
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And I don't need these arms anymore |
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I don't need this heart, now to love |
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I don't need this skin and bones |
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At all |
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There's a way you've always known her |
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Telephone between her cheek and her shoulder |
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And eyes like crystal balls |
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That just won't shutup |
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About the future of the future |
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Ramona was a waitress |
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All but made of information |
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In a bar under the third bridge |
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She says she's looking forward |
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To living forever |
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And I won't need these arms anymore |
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I won't need this heart, not alone |
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I won't need this skin and bones |
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At all |
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At all, at all, at all, at all, at all |
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Ramona was a waitress |