When I was young I fell in love with story,
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With the eleventh hour, with the blaze of glory.
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The theater lights dim and all goes quiet.
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In the darkest of rooms, light shines the brightest.
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When hands are tied and clocks are ticking,
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An audience convinced: we¡¯re leaning in,
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Holding our breath again.
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Just when we thought the game was over
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The music lifts and our dying solider lives!
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And we breathe a sigh of relief.
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We¡¯re leaving, we¡¯re leaving our shadows behind us now.
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We¡¯re leaving, we¡¯re leaving it all behind for now.
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But even dust was made to settle
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And if we¡¯re made of dust, then what makes us any different?
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I guess we give what we¡¯ve been given:
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A family tree so very good at giving up
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When we¡¯ve had enough.
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Though truth is heavier than fiction,
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Gravity lifts as the projectionist rolls tape.
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And it makes us brave again
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And it makes us brave again
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And it makes us brave.
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So we¡¯re leaving, we¡¯re leaving our shadows behind us now.
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We¡¯re leaving, we¡¯re leaving it all behind for now.
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And it makes us brave again
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And it makes us brave.
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We¡¯re leaving, we¡¯re leaving ¡®em all behind for now.
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The Projectionist
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Sleeping At Last |