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A book not written
Will never be the same thing...
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Inject in me a set of false memories,
I don't mind becoming a dream...
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One cannot fathom
things that are too obvious...
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Yearning for the artists hand
they lie fallow and incomplete...
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fried fish with fries, the scent I like
add lemon, salt, and sauce alike...
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Being innocent
is the most punishable...
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All sorts of tiny creatures chirped,
and you hummed to their music...
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Will I ever find you
beyond the wrath...
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I have mastered in showing patience
slowly filling in the blanks...
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I've carried you around
kept you in my back pocket...
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Tossing, turning,
hard to sleep...
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Hum me a sweetened melody.
Whistling end to end on my cello...