Back then, it sucked,
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but wasn't it just too funny?
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Stalker Steve and
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whiny Tuesdays
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with girls on heroin in the bathrooms.
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In our forced confines
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we created something unique,
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characters that can and
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can't be replaced.
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Then, like a bag too full of marbles
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a rip disguised
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as a gymnasium and hallway,
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led us to the 'outside';
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we are dispersed,
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cast aside as delicately
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as if a child had dropped us all
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down million flights of stairs.
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Is that child I see myself?
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the one we left behind?
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Or simply the one that allowed us to go rolling off,
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occasionally colliding with one another
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once again?
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We rose, and
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were released
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but still inside the confines
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we wonder what became of them,
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in the bigger plot
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of land,
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what flower did they bloom,
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and how unique can they be,
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within the forced confines?
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