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Doing acid on my bedroom floor for the first time in what feels like years The light from my lamp dances on my ceiling a lot like you used to when I'd come to your dance classes But you gave up on that years ago Around the same time you shot me twice in the chest, one in my heart and one in my back I hadn't been able to walk a single step since and it's all your f**king fault But where's the line between missing what one was and feeling sorry for yourself? Between nostalgia and the shocking realization that one day you will be nothing more than the dead flesh in the ground And that maybe, just maybe, if you make enough memories you'll have something meaningful to think about when you're trapped inside your mind for the rest of eternity This message has been brought to you by angst ridden aliens This message has been brought to you by angst ridden aliens This message has been brought to you by angst ridden aliens
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