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I am, trying, to be, poetic. Which only, makes this, harder. To let time, slip by. But, it never does, really. Instead, now, more than ever, I am, wandering,  away, with my thoughts. Circling. For there are, no more, corners to turn, nor, places to be, and, be unseen. We are, all where we are, and, nothing more. Somehow, is this, a herding, ultimate dulling, of the masses, of the mind, of the will. For when, we willingly, become prisoners, no escape, is possible, and, no bars, necessary. What, oh, what, are we, truly, becoming.