But those pixels mix a pretty picture.
Close my eyes and count to twenty-three,
Dark deafens screams of an artist empty.
Escape from this fools gold fantasy,
Faithful, disappointing, drowning belief.
Twenty-one, Twenty-two, Twenty-hurry.
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'Twenty-one, Twenty-two, twenty-hurry.'
Its theatrical, and then its not, and then it is again.
'But those pixels mix a pretty picture.'
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