On the wind is a shredded voice,
someone else’s heartaches sung
like an old razor. Sometimes it burns
slowly, sometimes it’s an insatiable fire.
We know every word, despite ourselves
and every now and then, we sing too.
someone else’s heartaches sung
like an old razor. Sometimes it burns
slowly, sometimes it’s an insatiable fire.
We know every word, despite ourselves
and every now and then, we sing too.

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