I haven't even been here twenty four hours yet, and I've written 1.5 songs.
I sense a long year in my future.
My head is an empty room.
My heart is an empty tomb.
Those who enter either are doomed
To reside where all things cannot bloom.
They seed in unfertile soil,
With rocks to block their path.
The feed on water that boils,
Nothing is able to last
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