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They tend to misunderstand
the paper man with scissor hands
who watches the hourglass for grains of sand
to fall, and fall, again
as he pretends
that everything he lays his hands on doesn’t turn to shreds,
but why oh why does he persist to hide
when they insist he try to come outside
from the shell he lives inside?
Now he’s been hypnotized
and despite the lies
he sits and waits to die 
'cause he ca
n’t find no words to explain the rain,
all his emotions are transformed and now become pain.
He’s alive in a black hole empty in space
and he sits in front of the mirror and he’s face to face
with with the sadness, confusion,
his patience he’s losin’,
he’s substance abusin’,
he’s one with the music,
and he needs a little somethin’ to dial it all back
'cause he's runnin' in a race but he's not on track.