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The fans are spinning,
One fast, one slow.
Inadequate lighting
Hides the shadows
Under my eyes.

Inebriation rouses thoughts
That haunt me, while I talk
To a stranger,
Who I can't help
But compare to you.

My cellared memories
Have aged like wine;
Some soured, many superb -
So I make my excuses,
And curse myself for a fool.

I sit alone, instead,
Writing bad love songs
And wishing I was famous,
So there'd be a chance
You might hear one.

Inspiration falls like snow,
Laying down its heavy burden,
And somehow
I never seem to write
The song I mean to.

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