I send my thoughts to space to spin until they're sick
When they return they are always so tired, and burnt to a crisp
There is no cure for the disease I pretend I have
Besides of course the cured I could pretend to be
She doesn't think about me
Does she?
My thoughts escape before I can tell them not to exist
I just can't get my hands around their god damn necks
So I write them down and burry them deep in the dirt
One day, when they are found, the truth will be free
She doesn't think about me
Does she?
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