In the quiet of the night, a faucet’s dripping. In the center of the world, a core is melting.

Sweaty palms meet brittle walls as grip is slipping. Through the fabric of a manufactured world, this storm is ripping.

Without an eye to see, the blind destruction of a beast inclined to eat until its dead is surely rising from the sea.

In the absence of direction, we are lost to introspection, why we are this way, and when the night will break.

Yes, it was a Friday, isn’t it always?

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