There's these cracks in these streets...
The streets here, the streets back home.
There's always something on the verge of breaking.

I think the wall was covered with postage stamps
From all the lost letters they never sent,
From all the times he never said what he should've.
They're all pink in color with a crown staring back,
Faded like the plaid pillows that always clash.
A mix of old and new, I'm old and you're always new.

I'll eat the baby squid that had no chance to live.
Like the streets and the letters, it had a definite end...
Turned into noodles on a menu that drip down my skin.

I think I'm going crazy, but at least I'm still going-
While you sit in your room in vain,
Painting on lavender lipstick on your face
And pushing up pins in your hair
In order to do nothing but go to bed.
And I'm sick of it, I've been sick of it.

Sick of waiting for the construction workers
To fill the crack at the end of my street.
The mixture's no good when away for too long.

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