Hard to work
In a time
Where everyone and everything is working.
From this free and easy content.
Small works, big numbers, each day from this.
From this internal salutations, internal gratifications.
Thin and empty work with light and easy fingerprints all over it all the time.
Over here, beneath the old mountain.
The strength giving one.
Moistened by its endlessly creative shadow,
I can barely hear the billion hands of easy content.
Clicking and snapping up the shaky credibility of whoever.
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