I feel wrung out, like a used mop, drained of what makes it useful. Or like a peacock in black and white, just completely drained of whatever made it special in the first place. I want to go home, but I'm here, and leaving isn't the answer either. If home's where the heart is, then I need to find something, and I don't know what it is, or if I'll
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of whether I live or die
I'd rather just run
'cause either way
it's one hell of a choice."
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