Our Sunday Affairs
In The Eyes of Sailors We're All Saints
My mind's full of minotaurs Chasing me down these narrow halls I am a civil war I'm an ink blot stain I'm days away From where we want to be Lying on my bed falling asleep Back at my place, suburban New Jersey We laid there like an open wound You commissioned to his wrist He couldn't handle when you said "I'm just not feeling this."
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