after one boy and one girl and a man and woman, you encounter a message that’s inhuman“there’s not that much of you to go around and this isn’t just a chore, you’re going to look like a clown if you see any more than four!”
you search and search, and search some more but no songs sound familiar, you deplore. the world turns, and spins some more the rose withers, the birds soar the apps are gone, your bones are found and the ratio measured for a survey the love in them had faded away, and labeled you are a cynic