The angst of the well fed falls deafly upon my ears.
The whines of the dreary privileged are like fingernails
On chalkboard
To me
When you're dead you will long for the indifferent slight
Of a lover, or a gloomy rainy day, that leaves you blue
You'll pine for it
In your box
Facing up
Staring eternally at the linings of your new complaint
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