Ernest Cook


I see them all walk by, yet these halls I walk are empty.
They're concerned with who they are, but everybody here is nobody.
How they look is so important, even when they are all blind.
And in groups they still are searching, although there is nothing to find.
In mirrors they see an image, this image is not them.
They converse with one another, however they are not friends.
Obsessed with a subliminal purpose, they bite the hands that feed.
Imprisoned inside vanity, most will never how to

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