They ask for more
What do you think this fan club is for?
I slithered up each rose corridor
I kept a warm, safe place at my core
Before I lost it
They ask for blood
What do you think this woman's made of?
I stuck a small, thin pin in my thumb
They dream a low, long line to be crossed
And I crossed it
I'm alive
But a different kind of alive
Than the way I used to be
Okkervil River
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