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Turning yourself into a prison where the guards are inside the cells instead of out,
is an intimate experience reserved for special bedtime like that of a swollen Christmas carol.
Ebenezer Scrooge knocks over the golden coins that are oddly shaped in paper reserve notes,
and streamlines his hand to yours as you pray for dear mercy not to be stung by a greed virus.
As if the toll isn’t enough, you leave with more earnings than you previously had.
In the quiet desperation that the mass of men lead, the teller marks your blood without question to whose hands you ignore that want to feed.
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