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It's not even late...
As you stare at your pigment in the reflection
You suffer from the images your adressing
The long nights, the early mornings the depression.
Paranoid and suspicion by the actions you take
All the voices and demands telling you to make
Stuck inside with only death to decide your fate
Fantasising over comforting thoughts of suicide.
All the mindless sheep on the government's dick ride.
It's the tax that covers your freedom
But it's the tax that covers your freedom
You've sold your mind to your phone
