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Among the catacombs, the echoes of yesterday's eulogy

The truths of yesterday have eroded into the most brittle of thorns

Aligned with punctures that constallate across a vast cemetery of abandonment

Those who feel the need to be correct

Those who thrive on being correct

Your trees that line the contour of fallen forests

Indifferent to the fog which blanket the din of life

Posing for pictures, your gestures of being alone, independent

You're leading yourselves down the lemming's path and you're the first

one to jump