(She lives like russian roulette. Barrel up to the head. Where every sweet you ng move is belonging to a sickness.) Now enter special things to detour all the pain, like a brand new, solid mess. But nothing seems to last... It strikes w hen you've thought you won. It's self destruction. It strikes when you've thou ght you won. And the delicate balance won't survive the turbulence. Now, enter the escape from everything you've made. Cause something wrong inside won't let you live your life. It strikes when you've thought you won. It's self destruc tion. It strikes when you've thought you won. And down you will go, with a tai l of flames stretched out behind you. The cold wind will blind you. And in all that you can't see. The simplicity is beautiful.
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