A timepiece in every pocket. Enslavement and we pay for the luxury. A theory no one wants to listen to. I should give up on society, find a clandestine operation, join its ranks. Develop an even bigger grudge. Take it out on companies, the government, the rich. This is the paragraph they’ll read at my trial.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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