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I'd been uttering words I hadn't used in years when I got thinking about the center of the universe. But there's a guy across the street with a million mile stare and what could only be his wife. Anyway, but how could I think about myself with a preacher consoling them over there. Where I'm at the state song is just a whistling wind. A chained factory gate's the state sole flower. If you could see it. We keep asking ourselves, "what did we do?" Our providence keeps us wishing for something to keep.