If the past were as pure as the things we adore, we could raise a glass to history once more. But it's checkered as a chess board, all the suits have stopped the press, lord, I can't sleep among the sympathies of war.
See the spotlight is so damn fickle, all theses injuries they tickle, meant to torture, meant to tame a life of shame, and who's to blame? If the past were as pure as the things we adore, we could raise a glass to history once more.
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