What are we? Under these money schemes and honeybee clustering. Stomach keeps grumbling. We stuff it with nothing. Feed the hunger for substance with something like tumbleweeds. 'Knuckle up', we mumble. 'Breathe'. So puzzling. Crumbling, but cover things publicly so no one sees what others need. So no one reads he's suffering. 'No one sees me', one could think. 'If no one sees me, no one needs me. Fuck a team. I'm number one. Above all other', and such. Our dreams; crushed by us. We numb the sting to plug the grief. It wasn't easy coming clean. The confidence to modestly succumb to one's humbling.
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