In the conscience of your failings lives a fault that reproduces and improves,
It tells itself the only way out is through you and in its arrogance it thinks itself credible,
And it does what it says,
And it tears to construct itself and to constrict you,
There, in the fantastic lies of your life you suddenly remember when you wake up,
It lives, gnarls, and havocs everything into a perfect bed for its own intentions,
Drinking the tea of your virility and down-turning all your senses to control you better,
It toils and you twist yourself in existential knots.