It wriggles under my skin, all these tiny parasites
Searching for comfort, as if, it were a panacea
Some sort of delusion, which bores deeper yet
I lose myself daily, usually when I set the alarm clock
For an hour in the future to trick myself again
Squeezing the surplus of my labor much tighter then they
Making me less of a fool, then my altruism does
How many layers of false consciousness cradle the real?
Forsaken into the happy of consent as coercion embraces
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