lying on your bed, it's probably damp and stale down there,
and you're scratching away at something,
and I'm thinking to myself,
What's your story?
Who are you?
And in your head, one thousand feet above the city
scratching away at something still,
my pencil's snapped but yours remain unbroken
so I'll live a little longer
in your eyes as you lie calmly in your bed.
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