It takes a harlequin before my conscious steps in,
says there's better things for you than all this noise.
Parasitic thoughts and broken, hollow hearts
are wasted on the days we'll never get back.
We drank most every night living in paradise,
it's not so bad once we got past the shitty weather.
As days turned into months, then it's gone all at once,
I guess we should have listened to our parents.
They were almost always right as it turns out,
as sympathetic whispers are ringing out:
"We're on our way."
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