Has this life been reduced to what I am now? This disgusting mechanism, like the fish [of gollum's riddle], never thirsty, always drinking, clad in mail, never clinking. This perfect uniformity, monotony, with the list of things to worry about increasing twice as much as the information entering my head. This hypocritical life, where I'm willing to spend a whole evening helping you run, but where I refuse to help myself stand. Consider the facts, you're already reaching end game, while I'm still considering my opening move.
This life has been reduced to black and whites. The keyboard I mechanically type on, the notes I mechanically read, violin strings I play on from memory, this keyboard with the black and white keys. This music, it's controlling me, programming the robot I am, until all I can say when I speak are lyrics.
And all my words point at you, because you taught me these songs I sing from memory, because they're all that I can remember.
Them and you.
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