Since we were so little that we din't know we were little,
we've been shown another's dream of a brighter future,
An image of us as only half a being,because we weren't even the beginnings of a filament?
But who knew that flickering lightbulbs were what the days they called bright are,the waning light of monotony and routine existence.
Burning out and shining into our eyes,blinding fatigue.
On and on,like a bicycle wheel it goes,the full circle of life.
White as blank sheets of paper,buttery illusions of latticed lies.
Diaphanous dates,though,still come upon us,
when the brightness of light,the lightness of bright kills us with it's indulgence.
we've been shown another's dream of a brighter future,
An image of us as only half a being,because we weren't even the beginnings of a filament?
But who knew that flickering lightbulbs were what the days they called bright are,the waning light of monotony and routine existence.
Burning out and shining into our eyes,blinding fatigue.
On and on,like a bicycle wheel it goes,the full circle of life.
White as blank sheets of paper,buttery illusions of latticed lies.
Diaphanous dates,though,still come upon us,
when the brightness of light,the lightness of bright kills us with it's indulgence.
So true!
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