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We are many, stuck inside this dimension

Within our nature, we peel away

What could never be perfected

Our existence will never be a predecessor to optimization

Ripping away at our desire to love, to live and let live

Plucking away at the feathers of the Heavenly Dove

Our acuity feeds our essence, our purpose in this dimension

Pat ourselves on the back for scaling the highest peak

While flowing down the lowest drain

Autopsy of this dead world, pierced and pickled

Shorn and blue