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Lyrics
7. Dusk, shadows
grown long on the freshly cut public park grasses, the few children not called home yet run faster from swings to slides and back again. The many-colored lights of televisions sparkle through house windows all around. One small boy hears his mother then lies down and plays dead, level with the lit horizon and bigger than the distant, scribbled mountains.
(Lyrics copyright Aaron Anstett)