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Static SoundI met a lady with a papershe told me not to be sadthen taught me how.She lay down in her bed,500 shades of gray,her hair, broken with sweather flesh, chipping with stains,I apprehended her lipscrackling into my nighttime:"It is a marriage of the bodiesnot the minds.It is mine as much as it is theirs.It is mine as much as it is theirs."
SpikeDon't breathe or you'll catch my diseaseThere are definitions of dinner times and precious crimesdead behind closed doors.And lying in my bed, I haven't been able toslip out of my weekday skin.Feeling quite uncomfortable I noticed all the bloodstainslittering my sheets, and my tearsformed tiny worlds upon them.All the calmness, all the painI'm blistered, but I am not bleeding.I know that when I grow up they're going tomake a t.v. special about meand I'll sit there, in those leathered chairsand tell Mrs. Perfect that it was all so worth it--with a tear in my eye I'll saythat it was all so silly, all so sillyAnd when she asks my whyI cried today, I'lllook at her and saybecause I saw my therapist today.Because I saw my therapist today.When you die, you still exist as a holein the lives of your friendsand your family.Me, I'll just disappearand then sitting there, with all those holes,I'll know that I'm different from all ofthose complete folks,who walk and talk