Pounding away in the back of my head Until I've almost lost myself And those red and black patterns In which nothing happens Have made me sleep
A beautiful voice is a nail Being pulled out of wood Carry on little hammer You were always my favourite toy
When the world's dead to me In my soft ? ? ? fortunate cushion of pins(? ) Is a soldier Slicing thin(? ) through(? ) thin(? ) The unfortunate truth sneaking in
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