What is the century but an ill-conceived plan,
or a reservoir of hallucinations?
Man's blood and sweat alike fill the chasm
and Man will continue to drink
Lust surveys those who hunger,
and Time accounts for those in transit
The fountain will never cease its flow
Until man has been sated
He will sell a lifetime of toil
To be rewarded with more thirst
What is his time but an overvalued commodity,
or an elaborate hallucination?
His blood will turn
to ashes in his veins
His sweat will turn
to needles on his brow
His tears will turn
to dust upon his cheek
His thirst will never cease
Until he refuses to drink

It is the nature of the well
To help Man enslave himself