Obtuse

what are we as a society when our pasts never happened and our tragedies are five hour dreams the conundrums we build are jenga risks when we can't admit what set us off adrift that's why fools say life's so short years both lapsed and suppressed with nothing fought for our falls are what sculpts this mass of rock into the details that we are so who do I speak to in passing: the mammal or the farce what change do you come from what makes you you are people an obtuse algorithm of happy recollections or are they flesh blood and bone?
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