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I don't believe that we can conceive of an afterlife that's meant to be perceived.
catastrophe, calamity, everyone loves a tragedy.
there's guns, there's guns guns guns!
pointed at our head every time we close our eyes, but what are we, little folk, to do about this bakery full of lies.
we don't need no one to turn out the lights for us when we go to sleep.
catastrophes, calamities in our dreams
when we dream we like to dream about tragedy and afterlife, a perceived reality, a tragedy, a catastrophe.
it seems my life is only just pretend and dreams are only what you make of them,
and themes are reoccurring so often if i were wise id see a trend
we don't need no one to turn out the lights for us
arguing things that have never been said, the mail was empty, the books were unread
progress hindered by arrogance, inquiries made in present tense,
future stars will be twice as dense as ours, twice as dense as ours.
repetition rammed down my throat, answers given by anecdote
crueler sonnets were never wrote at all, never wrote at all and
it seems my life is only just pretend and dreams are only what you make of them,
and themes are reoccurring so often if I were wise I'd see a trend
progress hindered by arrogance, inquiries made in present tense
future stars will be twice as dense as ours, twice as dense as ours.
we don't need no one to turn out the lights for us
arguing things that have never been said, the mail was empty, the books were unread
we don't need no one to turn out the lights for us, how can you sleep at a time like this?
the answer was pointless, the question amiss, to err while conscious the words a mistake,
how can I afford to stay awake
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