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A temple made of wine, and I'm crying my eyes out at home alone. Actually, it's Guinness, and I've one left after this one.
Oh, it's that persistent loneliness. A girl wrinkled her nose at me today, and said "talk about what?"
And it's not just her. It's not just her.
Oh, Jesus will you just talk to me? Women, I mean; I don't expect Jesus to speak since he died that day, two thousand years ago.