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A phrase is sticking to my tongue, and oh, it leaves a bitter taste. Though we have traveled well through now, I need my space. But I know space doesn’t exist. It’s just a myth; I read it in a magazine. And I don’t believe in things I haven’t seen. I’d rather be a ship out on the sea than be on one out in the void. At least when you sink you get a minute to think life over while you drown. Up there you instantly explode. Yet still I go, I always go boldly into a black hole. I know that I’m not doing myself any favors, then again, you need regret to feel content. But I know that is just a myth. It might exist; I’ve seen it on my TV. But I don’t believe in everything I see, and there’s no convincing me. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be the one pulled to stay, yet somehow all the gravity is pushing me away. You could wear all nine of Saturn’s rings, but none of them would mean a thing if all our stars collapsed upon themselves, and you know they will. Meet me on the moon in a Hollywood basement. There we can make believe there was something to shoot for. ‘Cause I know progress can’t exist. This is it, this is all I can be. I’m sorry if you ever trusted me. I told you once to not believe in me.
I kept saying, “I know there’s something out there.” So she said, “Fly on then. Go fly into the sun.”

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from Stockholm Syndrome [Side A], released October 5, 2017

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Cephalopods And Their Allies Denville, New Jersey

Intelligent, Invertebrate, Different.

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