Apples are gone,
the last words of the insane man...
let me run, let me spin.
The voice is wrong, Signs aren't made of Neon lights after all...
Click, click, click, and there is my lost times in some lousy frame...
By the way that plastic bag that you're wrapping around your head has a hole in it...
Light cream is not light anymore, victims of congelation.
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