Laying down on the green grass
Inside the underground train
Turning pages, and you’re not really falling
You’re nowhere near the bottom
Raindrops stain the new glass
There’s mountains in the bookcase, moldy
Drumming fingers, and you’re not really falling
You’re nowhere near the bottom
You’re nowhere near
Look down, you’re nowhere near
Who said they were leaving?
And who’s really running away?
You said it’d be like the movies
We don’t need a tragedy
To share the same pain
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