21:22


These worn out roads all lead nowhere
The doors of houses like mouths of cadavers

Parties filled with decay and hubris

Moths in an eternally burning flame
A concert of the damned

All singing hymns of their own praise

Godless and hopeless 

 Not knowing their own peril
There are not enough words

Or I simply know too few

One in seven billion

And alone, desperately alone
We are running to win

But our prize is always death

There is no escape from the futility

Or the grave that beckons us home

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