Waking rested from a fever dream as somebody's knocking at your door.
It's my point of view that keeps me so unglued.
I've been holding out for days.
All those books I bought that I keep by my bed, they've been sitting there for years now.
A dusty yoga mat in the corner of my room.
Man I miss the piece I once felt.
All the bedroom songs that I lost in the walls of the rented homes I found.
It's my point of view that keeps me so unglued.
I've been running around for days.
All those books I bought that I keep by my bed, they've been sitting there for years now.
A dusty yoga mat in the corner of my room.
Man I miss the piece I once felt.
But I still close eyes when I'm at my desk at work or in my car.
Try to block out the swirling of existence and all the white noise that I chase down.
I want to find the rush that I felt when I was 17 and hold it up.
I want to take a breath in the stream, crushed beneath the weight of fallen leaves.
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