The days go in and out, and I hardly make a sound.
It all evolves together, quick.
The world seems tired, now.
Boy scouts of America and a GMC truck, content in their inferiority.
And we don’t know what we’re doing.
So, we hold the hands of the ones with empty, selfish souls.
We’ll call it love, later on. But it’s just the feeling of.
You are getting what you don’t want, but you keep it anyway.
We are buried in mountain deep.
God pull me in.
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