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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna
My heart is a rusty little thing.
I am even more plugged in these days, wired to my seat, hands bolted on the mouse and the keys. Eight hours, twelve hours, sixteen hours… I log in like clockwork despite the lack of sleep, lack of peace, the haunting...

My heart is a rusty little thing. 

I am even more plugged in these days, wired to my seat, hands bolted on the mouse and the keys. Eight hours, twelve hours, sixteen hours… I log in like clockwork despite the lack of sleep, lack of peace, the haunting tick-tock of the clock that shrieks deadlines, deadlines, DEAD-LINES. Even in conversations, I answer in auto-reply, in practiced spiels. 

They have turned me into a machine.

My mind gets exhausted. My bones creak. My fingers cramp. My eyes burn and bleed. But they still think I am a machine.

Well now, darling dictator, I’m slowly running out of energy. I am doing this out of need, out of love. Love powers my engine, but even cars run out of gas. What do you think I am?

Oh right–you think I am a machine.

One day, I will rise above you, into the stars that look upon me not as a machine but as a human being. I will rise above you and your stupid, tiny world that panders to your every whim. One day, I’ll sail into space, into the vast dreamscape that your closed little soul will never dare explore. By then I would not need to smile at you with my mercurial teeth, my steel grin. I will have no need for you and I can forget about you, fully, finally.

Darling dictator of doom, when that time comes, I will no longer be your machine, your little puppet whose strings you could pull at your beck and call. I promise you this.

I am not a machine.

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