The world is transactionally old and tired yet of an unstudied acceleration
Fostering an illusion of every; a fresh, new day
That targets and invades each succeeding, "new" generation
That into, ( very differently) age-old principles, portray
The world, in such illusion of speed, ground to a halt
In transactional mimicry of all happening
With no one any longer responsible; no one is at fault
As into the pit of hell we're so tapping
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