They'll ask if you remember, They'll sit and expect you to tell, All the stories of December; The ones you didn't take part in But you pretended it very well. You're wondering now: Where were you back at that time? The answer is small: Un-live.
Trapped inside your head, Avoiding touch and wrapped in your art. The mirror hadn't wait, The clock neither Everything is wasted You're left in fever; As old and broken as you've ever been.
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