Its five in the morning. I can't sleep. There is something in my ceiling. I think it might be a rat.
I'm going to sleep now.
"And they said, let us make ourselves anew, let us reshape this clay that we are made of, that we may see the night with cunning eyes like that of owls"
I am only a slave poet
And my chains are those that are worn like armor
By the most foolish dictators idols to their own grotesque
Bury me with my flute, a knife, coins on my eyes
And say you knew I was unrepentant
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