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At the precipice of melting time, my darling, must I wait?
At the door of a luminous black hole, my love, must I stay?
In a garble of rebirthing misconceptions that decompose at the gates of rationality there's a land of misconstrued creativity, afloat on a Promethean sea, with a dwindling population of symbolic none's.. that's the place for us, don't you see?