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Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.
All is moving, heart is beating
a question and an answer
never thought I'd hear you say.
I don't remember dying
but the paper knows the pain
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.
It beats beneath my chest.
Holding on, all but destroyed.
I hold only memories in my eyes.
And those promises break them?
I can't, I can't, I can't.
Shelby Burnside
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