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The Weather Station
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I woke up thinking of a song that I could write A song to pull the dream up from my night All day I felt so light And wild color bled along the road In the fields and fences as we drove along I was thinking of my song And what I'd place inside, if I could bury light In something I could write Would it explain to you this white moon Hanging high above the motel room? The last gasp of longing that I stretch my hand towards As though to steal from the moment some souvenir of words I woke up thinking of a song that I could write
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