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Fill Me With Your Light Lyrics
A true seduction’s what it is
The parts are neither hers nor his
I would prefer you don’t remove your gloves
The instruments shaped like a pear
The inside lined with rabbit hair
If you squint your eyes it seems to fit
Fill me with your light
I will not make a sound
Always throw the fight
And take it lying down
If you wear the mermaid’s suit
There’ll be no sliding down your chute
My sailors left to flounder in your wake
See the bubble, it goes pop
A false start, an unlikely stop
I’m not convinced of anything I say
Fill me with your light
I will not make a sound
Always throw the fight
And take it lying down
There’s a different kind of dark
The kind that stops the dogs to bark
It never has to wait for setting suns
Inside the egg finds pantyhose
And holds ‘em right up to your nose
The energy must somehow be absorbed
Fill me with your light
I will not make a sound
Always throw the fight
And take it lying down
The parts are neither hers nor his
I would prefer you don’t remove your gloves
The inside lined with rabbit hair
If you squint your eyes it seems to fit
I will not make a sound
Always throw the fight
And take it lying down
There’ll be no sliding down your chute
My sailors left to flounder in your wake
A false start, an unlikely stop
I’m not convinced of anything I say
I will not make a sound
Always throw the fight
And take it lying down
The kind that stops the dogs to bark
It never has to wait for setting suns
And holds ‘em right up to your nose
The energy must somehow be absorbed
I will not make a sound
Always throw the fight
And take it lying down
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I think it's the dying experience, retold by relative at the bedside who is deeply connected to thoughts of a dying patient.
Perhaps you've seen the various indignities inflicted upon the dying. They are prodded and poked with all manner of instruments (that may or may not fit) and if there's any mercy in this world, they are hooked to a palliative morphine drip. Bubbles in a transparent humidifier chamber go pop. The opiates and the electrolyte imbalances brought about by failing organs blur the lines between dreams, reality, and memories. The patient loses trust in his ability to read the situation. Breathing comes in starts and stops.
At a certain point, it becomes clear to everyone in the room that the most reasonable course is to go quietly, lying down, full of the light that characterizes the different dark of the beyond, and let the energy of the soul be absorbed into the collective consciousness of the universe. The feedback of the guitar in the finale emulates a monitor of vital functions, segueing from beep-beep to flatline. It is finished.
i still think its about rape
i still think its about rape
rape