Books that I don't care about, a rock from Pismo Beach a hat I wore in hiding shame when love was in my reach, a button made of plastic that used to make me laugh, a pen that broke when I was writing a goodbye paragraph. And the house falls. Traffic signals change. Through burned walls the world still looks the same It looks the same. A tape I made when I was fourteen of stupid dirty jokes, a box that I was saving of my father's leather coats, lace from my first lover, a letter she had sent. It makes me sit and wonder where she could have went. And the house falls. Traffic signals change. Through burned walls the sky still looks the same I'm sentimental. I guess that they're just things. I'm sentimental. Nothing is replaceable when memory's not retainable. I'm sentimental, and it's harder to find. The past melts like ice cream in a little child's hand. I try to taste the flavor, but the flavor never lasts. I stand among the burned-out ruins of a house that was my home. I stare at family portraits and pretend that they're my own. And the house falls. Traffic signals change. Through burned walls the world still looks the same.
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