One two free four. . The memories of a man in his old age. Are the deeds of a man in his prime. You shuffle in the gloom of the sick room. And talk to yourself as you die.
Through the fish-eyed lens of tear stained eyes. I can barely define the shape of this moment in time. And far from flying high in clear blue skies. I'm spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide.
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