the monument of the desperate story plagues the writer to his own pain
the writer cannot feel this pain because he has no organs for senses or feeling
he just exists, he's there and he has a common hand and writes with it
the temper of the common friend, speaks to me in the tones of spiritual indignation
welcome to the full blown past
of a mind that was psyched when he felt like the time has come to be ready and move
get away from this place and tell me how you feel
when can we be together
what can we do again?
are we even in this moment, do you see what's around you?
we can be gods, for just one day of course
i'll be sipping some frappe and we'll find you soon.
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