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Chasing the lie, tracing our scars, moaning for help. Every day we feel further away from ourselves, the concrete is wet we feel too comfortable, our responses are limited to reactions, and everything dies its little death everyday. So with my head up my ass and my foot on the gas, I set out to write a sermon for loss, hands caught on the door and my face on the floor, I'll write one for you.
Lyrics submitted by PLANES