There's a demon counting your mind,
selling you dead.
And while the out numbered lock their talk,
deaf walks visit the rest.
Vulture ones call in the futures of non.
All is mourn, the every hour sun,
bullet shadows to become.
I am you, looking at will with unborn eyes.
Don't come too close to the enter of the mind.
We have nothing to amend.
You are our godsend.
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