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i've got a way with pain i'm a shitty aim but i've got my wounds to tide me over till the next round of disaster i've got a small space where i can ride it out like some fool on a string itching to be pulled away. morose, verbose i know. but a shoe and a blanket and a pocket of memories don't make the best audience for an aspiring smile all the while i'm wishing ghosts could speak © 2003, h e a t h . h o u s t o n |