| manhattan. chance, don't wipe your ass on our carpet. |
[20 Aug 2008|07:05pm] |
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'Cause I could spark like thin white paper wrapped tight 'round some cigarette. And leave nothing but the smell of smoke and the bitter taste of regret. Or I could get hot like them coals that turn the water into steam. And fall down around you like some misty morning. You better hide your matches boy.
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