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de The Smoking Livers

In the direction of the blood that runs from a fresh cut throat, we run down.
From the perspective of a dead man's eyes staring up at dead men walking tall.
We face up to look down.
We breathe out just to hear something else.
There's a connection like a mid-air collision makes a point to kiss each other goodbye.
By the looks on your faces, I bet you've never seen blood run this thin and cold.
It goes down like ocean water breathed into the lungs, like glass swallowed and spit up.

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