~Exestentialist Determinist Nightmare~
the skies are gray, the sun is grey.
My face is grey, so they say these days.
the music is benign, the art is bland.
your words, my words, her words, his words, their words, my world.
congealing into bland nothingness...
i'm comatose.
I prod myself with a cattle prod and I don't feel a thing.
one day at a time I'll
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