Off late, have you felt the need
The urgency to walk down
The sleepy morning street
To grab a newspaper from
The silver ink-stained stand?
Or, is the news now stale
With clicks at your fingertips
You rather sit still, unmoved
Behind doors, unperturbed
With how the world is cold
Just like the blood that runs
In your grease-clogged veins
Your thoughts are now numb
Beyond despair, beyond repair

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