help hotlines ring incessantly
the sirens sing with the ravens
in the night sky
the suffering is endless
oh,
and the writers are left inside their imaginations
the paper has been burned
we are all trapped
nobody can remember the art that sung from our fingertips
that we created from our lips
we struck down the cross on the sandcastle
but it would be washed away anyway
nothing satisfies the taste of late
tie the noose on our string of fate...
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