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Here I am still intact,
and I should give myself
credit for that,
But I have cast a stone
deep into my throat,
I squat on land my
feet won't reach,
The smell of blood and
bile and bleach,
I need a square foot
and a rope

We can weave, we can unravel,
We keep on sleeping
right through our travels,
We can weave, we can unravel,
Take our confusion to a
much higher level

Spit it up and hand it over
to yet another child of squallor,
Pallid wheezing,
Lost all her color,
Her dark circles
getting darker,
He crossed her palm,
But nothing seems
to wake her from her
shitty dreams,
Now she's become just one
more helpless package
of doom

The city looks especially
vindictive tonight,
That hitchhicker looks like
he's headed home to
murder his wife,
Well it's a proven fact they
don't respond to every call
for help in time,
So there she stays,
Poor little girl,
Lying on the floor of a
dirty bathroom,
No folks there's no device,
No box of gods to descend
and take this tragedy,
Tie up all the loose ends

Lyrics submitted by 66exeter

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    General CommentExistentialist angst, pure and simple, and a tad pessimistic at that.

    We're alone in a cruel world, with no one to save or redeem us from on high and no guarantee of tidy endings (ie, no deus ex machina).

    Looking to the sky for help is for naught and, likewise, looking for any higher meaning or reason in it all only serves only to confuse and distract.
    mutuson December 19, 2005   Link

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