watching the door,
the echoing of silence creeping by across the floor.
from just below my feet, it carries down the hallway, telling me i'm here again.
i'm here.
longer it grows.
i tossed a penny down the hall to watch how far it rolls.
i know i'm not alone,
i'm not alone, i'm just all by myself again tonight.
watching the door.
i guess i like him in a way i've never liked a friend before.
i'll light a candle, try to catch the wax before it falls.
don't burn myself again.
i burned myself
i burned myself again.
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Folk guitar might never get better, or more dissonant, than is achieved by Wendy on this album. Forged in an oven operated under shaky circumstances, this object popped out in the form of a silver pearl. deadite_237
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