The religion of comfortness
The last men mediocrity mind
were we all stand in spite of the years passed by

I’m able to see them, all these people around
I hear them, they talk nonstop to my blank face
Black hole my stomach, my soul

Elisabeth Nietzsche, the sister twisted plan
The propaganda about the will on track
His philosophy or hers has prevailed at last?

I’m standing in front of you, yes– you could even touch my skin
I could even look straight into your greedy eyes
But still the black hole in the stomach, the empty soul

Inverted values and the return of the identical
Every instant will be replayed in the universe somehow
And most importantly the idea of the death of God

In front of the flat box, eating whatever documentaries they feed me with
erasing every single thought
Filling the black hole, the empty stomach
the lonely soul

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