All of your years exist on a plane. Steady and sloped, and waiting to drain. You will grow old and creased in your face. Blue haired and gold, a delicate state. Stuck in a climate or stuck in a cool breeze. Stuck in the scent of a greenhouse or dead leaves. The road pulled us back, yeah, I guess that I always planned to see it through. Do you hang your head when you think about home? Does it warm up your sheets when you're feeling alone? You were a bird, but I clipped your wings. I was a cage, and you wouldn't sing. . Stuck in the scent of a greenhouse or dead leaves. The road pulled us back, yeah, I guess that I always planned to see it through. If I was a coast set in the west, would you meet there and help clear out my head?
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