Open sores wafting through the jokes, I mourn softly. Do the catatonic zombie walk through a globe of warm bodies. Do the half robotic copy talk so the tone won't warn lobbies of my presence. Jolly rog' pennant. The mocking, fraud tenant trying to cop a squat in this facade we call living. And it ain't odd at all, is it? We've all had thoughts ending in offing small children. Stomping on infants. Just all in all killing. Am I alone in this fact? I don't know if I'm mad. Constantly taking the pulse of my patience. Conscious in labor, how long can I take it? Is this the process of aging? Is knowledge an agent of toxins. A shake of abrasive concoctions we're made with.
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