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Let me tell you ten sick notions that make reality a miserable mess.

Number one is hope, surely there’s no negotiation.

Number two is love; an asinine confabulation.

Number three is ego; our corrupt power station.

Number four is belief in awesome divine salvation.

Number five is desire; the evil conflagration.

Number six is time; its daggers of intoxication.

Number seven is corporeality; damnation.

Number eight is illusion granting exhilaration.

Number nine is our grave conscience, lost in translation.

And number ten is us alive in asphyxiation.

Let me tell you one sick thing that made your day a miserable mess.

This vomit sac of a poem, a genius game of chess.

Vomit sac.

 

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