Chasing the lie, tracing our scars, moaning for help, to be held. And every day we feel further away from ourselves. The concrete is wet I feel too comfortable. My responses are limited to reactions. And everything dies its little deaths everyday. So with my head up my ass and my foot on the gas. I set out to write a synonym for loss. Hands caught in the door and my face on the floor, I'll write one for you.
Top songs from Kind Of Like Spitting
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