Another year's flashed on by and still the elevators tell me that I might loose my hand. I guess long ago I was all right, but now it's ok to be alright. I'm so loost that I'm not sure whether I'm seperating or separating. Another ten-fifteen years, and I'll definately be in an asylum.
Perhaps English is moving on and I'm getting left behind. Or is it that the world's moving on and I've gotten off?
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