Beneath the everyday attire, the spirit falls ill, dormant,
In the monotony that seems an eternity of silver smoke, contingent.
Boredom weaves its fabric between walls of flesh, walking dead,
Many beings live this pseudo-existence, in slumbering cages.
They slowly make their way to offices, in convoys of rusty machines,
Immersed in the deep sea, where words become unwritten stones.
They...
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