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Existential Fears
My body is a storage space for my reactions and intentions.
My brain has turned to clay,
and my heart is an anvil.
I have no thoughts.
I have no dreams.
I sleep.
I rise.
I repeat.
Iron playdough bands trap me inside myself, and I am numb.
Numb to everything but the monotony of trying to find existence as a
giant pendulum swings down.
My life will end, and I will have no fulfillment.
