Mission Street is a striking dark-eyed stranger
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Who speaks a language I don't know but long to learn
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Its cadences fall endlessly beyond the windowpane
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As I sit as though awaiting some return
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And my hands are cold tonight
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I'm sleepless in this dark
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Forgetting what it was I came to find
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And it seems that I've been wrong
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More than I've been right
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More than I've been right
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Mission Street calls out to me by name
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Then hurries on before I've hardly turned my head
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Promises of answers muttered underneath her breath
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Like an offering of contraband misread
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And my hands are cold tonight
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On the strings of this guitar
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Looking for the chords of what I've left behind
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And it seems that I've been wrong
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More than I've been right
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More than I've been right
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Mission Street is alive at every hour
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Like I've never been and feared I may not ever be
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A light so steady on the mountains in the distance
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A solitude so deep it might awaken me
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Well my hands are cold tonight
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But the sky is bright with stars
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And I'm tearing through the veil that keeps me blind
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And it seems the more I'm wrong
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The more that I am right
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The more that I am right
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Mission Street
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Vienna Teng |