The loneliest people in the whole wide world
are the one you’re never going to see again.
And four hours north of Portland, the radio flips on.
And some no one from the future remembers that you’re gone.
Armies massing in the dusky distance, ghosted in the ribbon microphone.
Leave a little mark on something negative, take the secret circuit home.
Nothing’s in the shadows but the shadow hands,
Reaching out to sad young frightened men.
The loneliest people in the whole wide world
are the one you’re never going to see again.
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