December 2006

Dearest Sister, Brothers, Siblings, and Friends;

What the hell just happened?

I saw the thread a Twisty’s fairly early on, and for some reason I thought it might go the way that 99% of twisty threads go, with limited uproar at certain venues. A full scale blogwar, complete with delinking? I must be dreaming.

That said, y’all picked a good one. Transphobia is a steaming pile of shit right in the middle of the living room of the 2nd wave, and it’s a right moment when somebody calls that out. But it’s unfortunate in so far that such fights are rarely rewarding. Nobody is in a particularly good mood at the end of it. BFP and BA, my confidential to you is to send my love and/or beer. Take care and we’ll see you around soon.

About the only thing I can pull out of this is a reminder of how important it is to think about where the State is when you do your work. My friends, intellectual and activist co-conspirators, consistently tend to de-center the state when speaking about the future. Born of a deep distrust of the claims to justice and law given by the same, this aesthetic of dissent has about jack shit for time when it comes to promoting what desperately reeks of the old order. Whether it be welfare “reform,” the State backed “knowledge” of gender essentialism, or the criticism of whatever kink or expression came under fire today, I just can’t be arsed to see such profound differences in your project and that of conservatism. Yes, your motivations may be pure as something really pure, and so, so, soooo different than that of the state’s. But surely granting that y’all have a very legitimate grievance, must it be said that in responding, not all targets are fair game? When you find yourself lining up with the most powerful forces in society in getting squicked by genderfuck…what conclusions do you draw?

That genderfuck is pro-patriarchal?

This projection is why i stick out my tongue at Heart for claiming that Rad Fems have but only advocates against the all powerful might of Pornsitution. Yes, they as Rad Fems control few of the major resources at play in the Feminist World. Sure. But when Johnny Law is in your rolodex, and you have a history of snitching? Oh, see that’s a different game. So your “idle” talk of getting rid of blowjobs and S&M (which Heart explicitly endorses*) isn’t so idle.

Did you know that: until recently, sodomy was criminal in several states and that these laws enacted the marginalization of queer community? The more you know, because knowledge is power.

If you want to understand why a lot of us are getting together in this, why oh why it seems like there is a posse, cult, sliced bread appreciation committee, or other organized groupthinking going on, all you have to do is read Janet Halley’s “Sexuality Harassment” and then Bfp’s blogging on Oaxaca. Then, if you enjoy puking in your mouth, re-read the BJ and Trans wars, courtesy of Texas’ most abstractly queer woman.** For deeply held reasons, there are POC and sexual minorities, persons in poverty, and assorted other radicals, and combinations thereof who find themselves looking for alliances with people who get it. Who are just plain suspicious of state power and the reproduction of it’s values. Who understand that the Oppression Dick Measuring contests are all pointless, when the fact is you have to be alive in order to participate. Judging by that, there are two things I can tell you:

1. There is someone, now dead, who was until very recently way more oppressed than thou, causing said death.
2. You have something better to be doing with your time.

With this firmly in hand, alliance looks a little different. Like Halley points out, not all things converge onto a single point. The language of one struggle may choke when taken to new territory. And most of all, it forwards a new vision of conflict. If one struggle for liberation conflicts with another, I’m not looking for which one has to go under the bus. Understanding someone else’s movement from the perspective of how useful their idenity is to your cause is a problem. If your language and frames of thought require this conflict? Hold fast to what is good. And incinerate the rest.

Lesbian SM play parties are not going to bring down the revolution. Consensually kissing the ass of a human being is remarkably less damaging than consenting to kiss the ass of the state. And whether or not you explicitly reference the state in your post-radfem apocalypse or not, the fact of the matter is that it’s right there. There is a history of not only state interference in certain sexualities, but of radfem cooperation with the same. Halley speaks to this in the article linked above, where emerging theories of feminist law and practice increasingly engaged the state. But as Halley notes, the act of legislating sexuality in the work place both provides protection as well as creating a mechanism capable of legally excising queer idenity.

Moreover, you are speaking in state vocabulary. The mere act of thinking to remove an act of sexual expression from the face of the earth, is not just impractical or impossible, but a fantasy deeply rooted in the kind of sexy sexy power that only a legitimate monopoly of violence can afford. Community organizing your way to the end of porn? You’re kidding me. The claim to powerlessness requires that we actually believe that this is their sole avenue of recourse. Yet you have a state, just standing there, waiting to do the same. Coincidence? Sure.

The state continues to enact extra-legal harassment, as witnessed in the devastating violence levied against transpersons by police, both directly and by the consent of inaction. Cries that “real women’s” issues will get sidetracked in the great trans conspiracy evaporate into nothing when two of the headlining causes that the radfems (SaltyC cites Slade’s article) claim will go away as “men invade feminism” are sexual assault. Uh, what? WHAT?

Most of the rest revolve around health care access that respects the needs of individual women. Which is also not an issue for transwomen. *headdesk* Do you understand the words coming out of your own mouths? Just by the taste alone, you might realize that your speech is unsavory, but I’ll keep calling it out if I have to.

Now go do something better than reading.*** I believe hugs and/or consoling alcohol is in order, so go show love for everybody who got targeted, everybody who got derailed from their work, and remind each other that we’re here for a reason.

It would warm my queer heart.


* I am aware that the charge that rad fems want to ban X, is a controversial one. A fair reading of Heart gives no other option. In the comments at “Are Feminists Allowed…” she states an open goal of eliminating certain sexual practices. There is a special level of irony of decrying the ability of Rad Fem to impose internal standards, all while engaging in sexual bullying of those engaged in alternative sexualities. Why for instance, a straight woman takes it upon herself to police the content of lesbian space in the name of feminism is beyond me.

** Twisty’s actual sex life is, duh, none of my fraking beeswax. Her public writings on sex, however, are fair game. As Belledame has written about (sorry, can’t find it right now. Belle?), twisty’s focus is consistently on heterosexual sex, mores, practices, etc… The fact that queer perspectives are getting conflated with “pornstitution” in her thought seems to hark from a heterocentrist feminism.

*** I hereby announce the Nth semi-regular Radical Fun Day, if BFP would be so kind as to let me borrow the idea. Formal announcement pending approval and the cessation of my impending hangover.


To one of my readers who left a comment without a valid email address.

My comment that you are referring to is above the byline, not below. I am not responsible for the second comment, which as you note, is being posted frequently at progressive/radical blogs.

As someone who is deeply uninterested in spam, and quite interested in contesting negative stereotypes of persons with mental illness, I will not be posting your comment.

Thank you for your concern,


Snarkity is at it again. Today’s “I don’t really mean this, but I’ll say it anyways” Award goes to:

Here, my experience, again, is, if someone offers a differing view of transgender issues than the one you hold, bfp, then that person gets immediately labeled “transphobic.” At that point, the discussion really ends. There’s nothing more to be said. Which is why I am saying, I hope space will be made at some point for the discussion I think needs to be had.

That’s from Heart at BFP’s place.

She’s got a point. I will now stop using the following discussion ending terms: racist, homophobic, sexist.

It’s not discrimination. It’s a difference of opinion!

Can’t we just learn to agree to disagree about whether or not you’re actually a person?


PS: I may or may not post more comprehensively on this later. But in the mean time, read BFP’s full thread, and also go to SE for commentary on the “crazy” baiting that accompanied the anti-trans rhetoric.

As I said, this is a requiem, a memory of loss.

But I may have been slightly disingenuous. I may have invited you to a different funeral.

My friends are still alive. Mostly, I’ve lost track of people, but the few people I kept in touch with afterwards were all more or less okay. In an admission I’d rather not make, I ended up dating a girl I met there, and so we kept up with several folks. They were surviving, making the best of things, and moving on as they could.

Jennie, from a small town up north on the way to Duluth, was back at school again last I heard. She was excited to be back home, even if things were still rough. She was planning on graduating early, and going to trade school to be a mechanic. Her mom and step-father had agreed to some joint counseling, and we were hopeful that things might be getting better for her.

Mollie, who i dated, struggled some after we broke up. But she had avoided self-injury for over a month when i spoke with her last, which was longer than she’d gone in some time. Her family was dedicated, if somewhat overwhelmed, in trying to help her.

Bobby, I saw again on my later visits. He was still doing outpatient treatment for anger management. Things had been going better for him at home, and his mom and sister were more comfortable having him in the house. He was still foosball champion, however, as he had been there the longest. He was in good spirits, and we talked about looking forward to getting back to our lives apart from that place.

Jill, who I talked about in the previous entry. I spoke with her later on, and she had had a good couple weeks. She was glad to be home, and her parents had gotten some respite. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on, since they didn’t tell her everything in terms of her treatment plan, but i took it as a good sign that she was released to home, and not Green Acres.

I haven’t heard from any of them now in years, and I always have a little twinge of worry for Jill. But my friends are all strong people, and I do not believe I am unreasonable to think they are well. I don’t mean to suggest I believe they are all cured, or magically transformed. By the numbers, it’s likely that some of the folks i met there are in longer term institutions. Others are still in contact with the mental health system in other ways. But if my intuition is correct, their strength and determination has served them well. Despite the dehumanization, I know many people who have survived and overcome.

This is a requiem. I’m not crying.

This funeral is for shame and stigma. I’ve been holding these things for a while now, and I’m going to keep holding them until the damn things stay in the ground. And I’m not going to shed a tear for these bastards, these demons. I’m going to celebrate my friends, my siblings, the survivors, the strength of our community.

We’re just getting started. Consumerist movements have been around for a while, but all in all, my sense is that disabilities organizing is at a place of possibility. Mental health communities have been historically problematic to organize, because of the strong potential to get overtaken by “concerned” outsiders.

There’s much to be done. I’ve blogged much of it before, but I want to put my words in the context of a vision, and not just in reaction.

The system is broken. Any attempt to “help” people with violence and coercion is doomed to reproduce the worst of human possibility. While I am aware of how scary it can be to see someone who is in extreme distress because of mental illness, the fact is that few individuals do not have periods in which they are more willing and able to discuss their wishes and desires, to be agents of their own well-being. The non-consensual model of care conveniently forgets this, using force when it can, cajoling and manipulating when it must, and creates an image of mental illness that is fixated upon the helpless subject. The “lunatic” is one of the strongest images of the necessity and justice of White Male Intervention, the beneficence of the imperial. The ‘crazed native,’ the ‘neurotic and hysterical woman,’ the ‘confused’ genderfucker… We have all seen social dissent codified in to pathology, and many of you have been on the receiving end. But make no mistake. It is those who are most fully made subject to this language of inhumanity that suffer the most because of it. The fight to end stigma is not justified because it may be helpful to other struggles for liberation, but because there are people who are not free. No liberation owes it’s raison d’etre to anything but that conviction.

In protest of how my words have been characterized in past days, I will make very plain that I am not trying to “rescue” anyone from the slander of being called mentally ill. I would never dispute the illogic, double think, and troubled nature of the narrative of domination systems. I am trying to rescue my community from the slander of being labeled mentally ill in a world that then cease to recognize them as human. Note that the single most determined part of that conversation was the conclusion that white folks will use their privilege to avoid that term because it is a bad thing. Of course they will, and of course it is. It’s been made that way. As I said before, it is a gun loaded with the pain of my people.

The choice before us is fundamentally about the autonomy of the subject, and of peoples and communities. As James Cone reports in Black Theology and Black Power, a Black Power advocate was asked, ‘what about integration?’ The reply was clear. “Integration of what?” Nobody has a moral obligation to “cure” themselves of on account of the social compact. I believe that people have the right to the most autonomous existence that is possible for them, regardless of if they are neuro-typical or not. Mental illness isn’t about pain for other people.

I believe that most ill-treatment, stigma, and fear of persons will mental illness revolves around observers imagining that they are the victim. That being forced to exist in the same world as somebody who thinks, feels, and perceives differently than they do is terrible. And then the cure gets a whole lot worse than the disease. Racism is a white problem, not “The Jewish Question,” not the “Negro Problem,” not the “Immigration Debate,” nor any of the other names by which the process of putting the humanity of people of color to a contest has been known. Stigma is a neurotypical problem, not the menace of the atypical. The exaggerations of criminality, the use of prisons to punish those who have been denied assistance, the narratives of the helpless yet threatening lunatic… Is anything becoming familiar yet?

We need to bring new language to bear in describing people who are neuro-atypical, make sure every one of them has access to care that respects them as a human being with agency and choice, end the stigma and fear that is inflicted upon them, end cruel and inhumane “treatments” and institutional settings, end the criminalization and incarceration of people who simply need medical and social support, find housing for those who have been pushed on to the streets, banish the racialized models of care that look for an existential crisis and deny that anger and disruption are legitimate responses to a hurtful world, make mental health a cornerstone of care from daily life to disaster relief, cease complicity in the sexual assault and exploitation of those made vulnerable by authoritarian settings, and begin to actually promote the welfare of neuro-atypical people to make active choices towards their health, not simply regarding treatment as their obligation to society, but options to be weighed in seeking their own good.

For there is a better way. As Piny remarked, ablism is brutally wasteful, and represents a cornerstone of the persistently eugenic fantasy of the West. There is a better way, and it begins in a movement and a politics that declares that we have a right to exist. I believe in a community that respects our elder siblings in liberation, the communities that have learned to organize and with whom we share the common goal of freedom, expressed and realized in unique ways. I struggle for a future in which the test of human authenticity is not commodified angst nor pacification, but the work of choosing one’s own future.

For the memory of those who have died, solidarity with those who still fight, and hope of a just future, I pray.


A brief caution.

If the number 37 means something to you, you may wish to stop reading here.

If a discussion of institutionalization may be triggering, you may wish to stop reading.

This is a requiem in two parts, a remembrance of loss.

Station 37 is the Secure Juvenile Mental Health Unit at a hospital in Minneapolis. It’s not the worst, nor is it the best. It’s probably fairly nice as institutions go, but you’ll see that this is damning with faint praise.

She crumpled into the floor, as six men wrestled her on to her back. Securing her hands, they began to drag her off to a secluded room.

We stood around the counter, watching the scene just down the hall over the closed circuit monitors.

This was a code twenty-two.

When a patient became too unruly, a code was first called for all staff in the unit to assist, then another might be called to summon assistance from the adult unit next door, and finally hospital security. We knew the numbers, and from the first call we knew this was going to be a bad one. One girl had been in isolation down the hall, and she had been in several incidents already. She was young, maybe 12, and looked disoriented. It might have been her condition, the drugs, or both. But she was a “bad” patient, and we only caught glimpses of her as staff cornered her as we went by. Some screaming had started this off, and the loudspeaker informed us that it was about to get worse. With no staff at the counter, there was all sorts of mischief to get into. Keys were in the drawer, there was pop in the fridge, and rumor had it that confiscated drugs might be in the backroom.

We stood at the counter, some on tiptoes to watch the unfolding scene. I helped Jill up to sit on the counter, since she was too short to see over. In a mix of fascination and horror, we watched this young girl get tackled and shoved into the “Quiet Room.” She started to bang her head on the rubberized walls. Shit. I willed for her to stop under my breath. Don’t make them come back in…just let it go.

She kept going. They came back in, throwing her to the ground again. She nearly made a run for it, only to get clotheslined by the incoming security guards. They rolled her up in one of the rubber mats and waited for her to tire.

Staff started to come back towards the main room, and shooed us away from the counter.

In my junior year of high school, I went from a farewell lunch intended to celebrate my work at Sen. Wellstone’s congressional office to a “voluntary” admit at a hospital in south Minneapolis. Concerned that my symptoms had gotten much worse with the introduction of medication, my doctors decided they needed to step things up.

Things were just beginning.

Within the next year, I had collected an assortment of hospitalizations, police contacts, ambulances called, and my eyes were opening to a unknown and profoundly scary world. I dipped in and out, backed by parents as yet unconvinced that their lives would be better off without me. But when I went back, there were always familiar faces.

And I kept going back. As my medications changed over and over, my symptoms kept getting worse. Moody became nearly catatonic, agitated became hostile, irritable became self-destructive and I began to cut. Angry lines crossed my wrists, laterally, in a show of frustration. I only learned later that I’d been doing it all wrong, and that I would need to cut the long way if I wanted out.

Sadly, I was pretty well off by the standards of the ward. I had insurance coverage, most did not. I came from an intact home, most did not. I’d yet to seriously attempt suicide. Most had multiple previous attempts. We all made friends as best we could. We listened to the radio, including some of the good stations you can’t pick up near my house. And we bitched. We aimed at every injury, whether it could be fixed or not. We talked about how the miniature despot of the day shift, dubbed Col. Mustard, had a bad habit of looking down the girl’s shirts. We meditated upon the likelihood of getting out if a complaint was filed against the inattentive psychiatrist. We fretted about Green Acres, and the brochures that some of us had for “a stable, long-term setting for psychiatric care.” We asked around, and did not know of anyone coming back from Green Acres. We talked about going home, and if we even wanted to. There were problems there, for sure. One girl’s stepdad beat her. Another feared sexual assault. Relatives might take you in, maybe not. But there were friends at home, and you got out of this place. The kids who were outpatient were always hit up for news and favors. A candy bar purchased, a pack of cigarettes smuggled.

Most of all, we waited. Whatever happened next was off in the distance somewhere, and there was a lot of dead time. I stayed up late, looking out the narrow windows, hoping that maybe someone would look up from the bus stop. In all my time there, no-one ever did. My CD player blaring into my headphones, I stayed up to read and write, throwing stuff down on to paper as fast as I could. I thought I could actually get my demons out that way. Guess I still do.

And then, in the midst of the boredom, something would happen. We would go to the main desk, forget to actually do anything we’d plotted about, and watch. Oddly transfixed by the scene of one of our new friends being tossed to the ground, and forced into restrained seclusion, often drugged up beyond consciousness, we just stood there.

I looked down to help Jill up on to the counter again. She wasn’t by my feet, waiting like she usually did. About kindergarten age, she was a sweet child, intelligent and extremely sensitive. She also had a temper, and was capable of frighteningly violent rages. She was all of 60 pounds, but there were five of them standing over her, trying to hold her. The needle slid in, and we didn’t see her again until morning. She was groggy, and didn’t talk much. I never did find out what had set her off. Staff claimed she had gotten caught cheating at a game, but I hardly believe them. She liked cartoons, talking to the big kids, and playtime in the gym. We’d take turns pushing her around on the scooters until the staff told us that we were going too fast. Jill looked up and begged for another run.

For her age, she was remarkably good at figuring people out. We talked for a long time about why the staff treated us like they did, how teachers so often didn’t understand, and how it was good to have friends who knew something about being a little crazy. She worried that her parents just didn’t love her anymore. I think it was a mistake that the older kids told her about Green Acres.

I watched as they threw her into the floor. I walked back to my room as staff sent us away. I looked out on to the corner of 27th and Chicago, nearly deserted in the night. I opened my notebook, and began to write.

“I wonder if anyone even knows we’re here.”

To be continued.

But what happens right there.

BFP has been covering this since forever, so I’m going to send you there for the substance. But today is the International Day of Solidarity for Oaxaca. The people there are locked in a struggle to oust the corrupt and brutal governor, Ulises Ruiz. An open letter to the Federal troops occupying the city…

To members of the Federal Preventative Police:

You all are so young, and remind me so much of my children in your age, you color, your features, that if it were another place, in other circumstances, I wouldn’t have any problem approaching you to give you a hug and to comfort you with maternal love, now that you are so far from home, from mom and dad, from your wives and children, in a foreign place. I know how you feel, because a mother always feels for her children, and my children, like all of you, for days, weeks even, have been away from home. “We’re fine, maybe we’ll be by tomorrow”…they say and hang up, or they send little messages that I don’t understand because they write so strangely…I’m sure that you all could be friends: you are all the same age, you have the same features, the same stature, and you all work cell phones so well…

But no, it’s not possible. “My children and I are on this side because we are pueblo, and we are with the pueblo because our morals impel us, and the conditions that we live in demand it of us. On the contrary, you all are with the government of the rich, with the tyranny of the powerful, and you all are their army even though you all, and your children and your wives and your parents are, like us, pueblo.”

If I could take all of your clothes off, if I could take away your clubs, weapons, shells, defenses, and that gray uniform, so ugly, and leave you all as God brought you into this world; with your mestizo skin and black hair, and the marks on your body from malnutrition, and from trying to make a living, trying to eat, you would all realize how similar you are to my children, who have the same lesions that misery has tattooed on their dark skin, that perhaps you all could let yourselves think that you are on the wrong side, fighting against your own, against your equals. And all just to maintain a system that spreads inequality, that makes the rich richer, while it kills the poor with hunger, or hires them at poverty wages to kill those who remain dignified and refuse to die of hunger.

In that aspect you all are so different from my children that it makes me happy. They left their houses to defend their people, their pueblo; you all left yours to defend those in power that violate the pueblo. They left their school uniforms to go and defend the barricades; you all have left yours to try and lift those barricades. They are out from liberty of conviction; you all for this monstrous job? They are fighting for a brighter future, for a democratic, just, fraternal and equal society; on the contrary, you all beat people in order to put bread on the table of your own, bread that is stained with blood. My children are in the street defending their life, armed with reason, their morals, and resourcefulness; you all are out there with machine guns trying to take the lives of those who are defending life itself, profaning Oaxacan ground, without reason, because there isn’t one, and without honor because you all don’t have any.

I haven’t seen my children for days, but I know they are all right; I know that there are other mothers going to the barricades to give them food to eat, and the hug that I can’t give them because I have to work to support the youngest ones; I know there are medics to help them if something happens; I know that they have friends to help them through difficult moments, when the mercenaries pass and shoot at them, and they see death so close; I know that they have their girlfriends at their sides, fighting shoulder to shoulder in the battle, as the equals that they are; I know that when they want to assault them, the neighbors come out to help out; I know that my children are children of the pueblo and that their pueblo are there brothers and sisters, and their mothers, wives and children. It has been days since I have seen my children, but I know that they are all right because they are on the right side, doing what is right, and I feel very proud of them, my children, the thousands of children that were born for me in the early morning hours of June 14th.

I hope that some day your mothers can say the same that I am now saying of my children: that they are proud of you all because you have decided to leave the uniform behind so that your future won’t be as gray as those that you now wear; that the bread that you decide to bring to the table be a product of your own sweat, not of the spilled blood of the workers; that your time in Oaxacan lands be a product of a hospitable visit, not a result of a military operation in disguise, lacking in legality and legitimacy, treasonous and malicious. I feel bad for you and for your mothers, the strange enemies that you have resolved to confront, and to profane my land, my earth, with your boots and your tanks, without ever being able to imagine that the God that never dies gave me an activist in each child. I am sure that we will overcome, that we will triumph, that we will construct a better world for our children and even for yours! That will be our revenge….


The brave and dignified women of Oaxaca

The why you should care is not that globalized labor means that the oppression of people in Mexico can have a direct and negative pressure on American wages, though it can. And it’s not that the Bush administration may get ideas from Fox on how to deal with domestic dissent, though he might.

The why is what happens right now. For Oaxaca, and for you. In the face of such violence, you only have a couple of choices. You can deny that it’s really happening. You can do something about it. You can deny that it’s important.

Guess which one we usually pick here in the States? Not everybody is going to be in a position to do everything, everytime. But there is a violence that you are close to, one that affects you, one that you see, one that you may have the power to interrupt. Speak up, and tell the powers that be, that from this day forth, you will have no part in the shedding of innocent blood.

The attack that our brothers, the people of Oaxaca suffered and suffer cannot be ignored by those who fight for freedom, justice and democracy in all corners of the planet.

This is why, the EZLN calls on all honest people, in Mexico and the world, to initiate, starting now, continual actions of solidarity and support to the Oaxacan people, with the following demands:

For the living reappearance of the disappeared, for the freedom of the detained, for the exit of Ulises Ruiz and the federal forces from Oaxaca, for the punishment of those guilty of torture, rape and murder.

We call to those in this international campaign to tell, in all forms and in all places possible, what has occurred and what is occurring in Oaxaca, everyone in their way, time and place…

Subcomandante Marcos

Note Marcos’ language. All honest people are called to this, because the truth of the world is that evil is happening. Honesty is not a private virtue, my friends.

This isn’t about the long term. This is about what happens right now.


As a quick break from studying for my last exam, part not sure in a continuing series: Minnesotans you oughta fraking know.


A member of the celebrated and infamous Doomtree crew, Dessa is a unique voice in the Minneapolis hip-hop scene, and spoken word artist extraordinare. Poetic with a beautiful voice, and lyrics that draw you in to think and feel…

I’ll just leave you with some lines from “Cubano” and tell you to go over there and find yourself a new musical addiction.

kiss the bottle, spin the girl
i forgot
but reconfirm that life can be fine
if you make it sacred

little bit of melancholy, never hurt anybody
even if it is a sickness
i’m oddly convinced that at least it’s honest
when life gets so tragic comic
a mattress with no sheets on it
fact is you have it, the task is to want it

if there’s a damsel in this dress
she’s too far gone to say, out of time
it won’t get better, baby
you can’t talk me down from this decline
you haven’t got a chance
but you can ask me to dance…


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