| I don’t go to therapy to find out if I’m a freak
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| I go and I find the one and only answer every week
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| And it’s just me and all the memories to follow
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| Down any course that fits within a fifty minute hour
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| And we fathom all the mysteries, explicit and inherent
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| When I hit a rut, she says to try the other parent
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| And she’s so kind, I think she wants to tell me something
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| But she knows that its much better if I get it for myself…
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| And she says
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| What do you hear in these sounds?
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| What do you hear in these sounds?
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| I say I hear a doubt, with the voice of true believing
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| And the promises to stay, and the footsteps that are leaving
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| And she says «Oh,» I say, «What?» |
| she says, «Exactly,»
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| I say, «What, you think I’m angry
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| Does that mean you think I’m angry?»
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| She says «Look, you come here every week
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| With jigsaw pieces of your past
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| Its all on little soundbytes and voices out of photographs
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| And that’s all yours, that’s the guide, that’s the map
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| So tell me, where does the arrow point to?
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| Who invented roses?»
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| And…
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| What do you hear in these sounds?
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| What do you hear in these sounds?
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| And when I talk about therapy, I know what people think
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| That it only makes you selfish and in love with your shrink
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| But oh how I loved everybody else
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| When I finally got to talk so much about myself…
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| And I wake up and I ask myself what state I’m in
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| And I say well I’m lucky, 'cause I am like East Berlin
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| I had this wall and what I knew of the free world
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| Was that I could see their fireworks
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| And I could hear their radio
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| And I thought that if we met, I would only start confessing
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| And they’d know that I was scared
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| They’d would know that I was guessing
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| But the wall came down and there they stood before me
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| With their stumbling and their mumbling
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| And their calling out just like me, and…
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| The stories that nobody hears, and…
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| I collect these sounds in my ears, and…
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| That’s what I hear in these sounds, and…
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| That’s what I hear in these
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| That’s what I hear in these sounds |