runawayHome is where the heart is; in fragments on the floor. home is where the heart is;runaway
halfway out the door. home is where the footsteps meet you… In the halls of life to great you… Home is where your broken wings can soar
the non stop street lights: going nowhere, and they’re all so late to get there, no one ever says they wish they lived a little less
and spent more time to make their frayed ends meet. and so they line the streets, with billboards and church bells, and music and hotels to make us think we live a little more. and die a
smoke
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