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Friday night I’m just hangin' around 
a campfire staring at the ground. 
Is there anything new in this town   
or just the same old fun?   
My friends want to go for a ride. 
I’d rather stay inside. 
We go through this every time 
the fire burns down.   
It’s nights like this I think 
about my cousin in Beijing. 
He plans to spend eternity  
traveling the world. 
I call this town home it’s true 
but familiar homes can burden you. 
Will I ever leave this town? 
Or just hang around? 
Monday I’m pulling out my hair  
sitting in my boss's chair 
'till I see a man on the square 
I’ve never seen before.   
He carries a bag and walks alone,
limping across the road, 
stops to finish his ice cream cone 
though he looks too old for ice cream.   
Peering through bent window blinds 
I see his face looks like mine,

with a scar just above the eye.

Oh what are the odds?

I call this town home it’s true. 
I’ve known everyone by name since school. 
So who's this in my town 
just hangin' around? 


Lately I see him everyday,  
the man who calls himself Gray.  
He's traveled the world and parlayed  
with the rich and distinguished.    
He hit it off well with my friends, 
telling them stories of men 
too wise and bizarre to invent 
but I don’t trust him.   
There's something familiar in his eyes 
and I don't know why
but the way he laughs implies  
they are my own. 
I called this town home it’s true 
until this stranger came through. 
When will he leave my town 
and stop hangin' around? 
Everyone in town is quite pleased, 
when I'm out of reach, 
to pass the bottle while he reads 
from his journal.  
I remember those entries well 
even before I heard him tell 
about the time he posted bail 
for a state congressman.  
I never told anyone the name 
but our stories are the same. 
Now it's getting hard to say 
which of us is real. 
I've called him a stranger it’s true, 
but when the stranger is you 
who will leave town 
and who will hang around?

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