Miles can not separate the mailman and his pride
So therefore, you can't rid yourself of me.
In our twisted memories
We seem to meet at every corner
Oh, if only the footsteps of thought
Could translate into some form of reality
Transcribed on discarded card-stock,
You're writing a love song
To whom, although, you won't admit
The ether grasps your hand so tight
I'm not letting go,
We are the only solution that isn't nonsensical
Come for me, find me
Take me back to where my future begs to be
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