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Your heart is a muscle, it contracts and relaxes again and again until the day that it doesn’t. Until the day you will no longer need it. But it is still a muscle  
When we run, what do we have to show for it? When we're nervous, no one will know of it When we draw it, we obscure it And defile and hurt it It's ill-conceived to put  The word love, with the word hurt
That muscle that pumps the blood through my veins
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