Mon fils, disait un jour Jupiter à Minos,
Toi qui juges la race humaine,
Explique-moi pourquoi l'enfer suffit à peine
Aux nombreux criminels que t'envoie Atropos.
Quel est de la vertu le fatal adversaire
Qui corrompt à ce point la faible humanité ?
C'est, je crois, l'intérêt. - L'intérêt ? Non, mon père.
- Et qu'est-ce donc ? - l'oisiveté.

I am a Prisoner.
Prisoned in the cage of expectations and social order.
Perhaps that’s why I long so deeply for solidarity.
But these chains won’t break—no matter how hard I try.
They feel eternal, their grip unwavering and cold.

Lived quite a life
No expectations
Happiness is overrated
Joy is needed, but where is it

He would battle life
in ways others couldn't see nor be
New beats are always demanded
A melody is needed, he is it

Good isn't good enough
Spoiled and you're forgotten
The waves wash away
the traces in the flat sand

Not much sunlight,
just a cold yesterday afternoon
that struggles to welcome the night
and darkness appears too soon

(He's so naïve. It will come)

Only he knows if he's lost
or where to be found
yet he's the cold yesterday afternoon
that fights to stay warm

He's too naïve, a soul in the storm
a desire to shift and reborn
yet bound by fate, rough and torn
he lives to play and perform.

_
                   𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜.
                         𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎.
                             𝙸’𝚖 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙽𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔,
                                   𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎.

                                   𝙷𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.
                                   𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎.
                                 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎?
                𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙿𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚜.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠.
𝐵𝑖𝑔 𝐵𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑠.
𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝐿𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑤.

                                                           ­             𝐈 ꞧꬲ𝐚𝐝 ꝡꜧ𝐚𝐭 ꝡ𝐚ꞩ ꝭꭴꞧꞵꭵ𝐝𝐝ꬲꝴ.
                                                      ­                        𝐈 𝐮ꝴꞓꭴꝟꬲꞧꬲ𝐝 𝐭ꜧꬲꭵꞧ 𝐝ꬲꞓꬲꭵ𝐭.
                                                         ­                                      𝐈 𝐭ꞧꭵꬲ𝐝 𝐭ꭴ ꜧꭵ𝐝ꬲ,
                                                          𝕭­𝖚𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖈𝖆𝖓'𝖙 𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖊.

𝐈 ꞵꬲꝇꭵꬲꝟꬲ𝐝 𝐈 ꞓꭴ𝐮ꝇ𝐝 ꞵꬲ ꞩ𝐚ꝭꬲ.
ꮦꜧꬲꝩ ꞧꭵꝓꝓꬲ𝐝 𝐚ꝡ𝐚ꝩ ꝳꝩ 𝐝ꭵꞩ𝐠𝐮ꭵꞩꬲ.
𝐌ꝩ ꝡꭴꞧ𝐝ꞩ, 𝐚 ꝭ𝐚𝐭𝐚ꝇ ꝭꝇ𝐚ꝡ.
𝐌ꝩ 𝐭ꜧꭴ𝐮𝐠ꜧ𝐭ꞩ, 𝐝𝐚ꝳꝴꭵꝴ𝐠 ꝓꞧꭴꭴꝭ.

                                     𝙸 𝚃𝚁𝚄𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙼𝙴,
                                     𝚈𝙴𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚈𝙴𝙳 𝙼𝙴 𝚃𝙾𝙾.
                                       𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝚂𝙲𝚁𝙸𝙿𝚃𝙴𝙳.
                                               𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 IS 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙻.

                                      𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙲𝙰𝙼𝙴, 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝚃𝙾𝙾𝙺 𝙼𝙴,
                                       𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙶𝙴𝙳 𝙼𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙸𝙻𝚄𝚅.
                                 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚅𝙴𝙳 𝙼𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼 𝟷𝟶𝟷.
                  𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙼𝙴𝙽 𝙶𝙾 𝙼𝙰𝙳 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚆𝙸𝚂𝙳𝙾𝙼 𝙼𝙴𝙴𝚃𝚂 𝙸𝚃𝚂 𝙳𝙾𝙾𝙼.

                                                      𝑰 𝑭𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩.
                                                       𝑰 𝑺𝙬𝒐𝙧𝒆.
                                                     𝙄 𝙍𝒆𝙨𝒊𝙨𝒕𝙚𝒅.

                                                     ᴬᵗ ˡᵉᵃˢᵗ... ᴵ ᵗʳⁱᵉᵈ.

                                                    2 plus 2 is 4.  

                                                            No.­

                                                    2 plus 2 is 4.

                                                         Wrong.

                                                    2 plus 2 is 4.

                                                           Lies.

                                                    2 plus 2 is 5.

War is peace.  
                            Freedom is slavery.

                                                       ­            IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.

                                                    ᴹʸ­ ᑫᵘᵉˢᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʳᵘᵗʰ.
                                                  ᴹʸ ᶠᶦᵍʰᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ᵏⁿᵒʷˡᵉᵈᵍᵉ.
                                                  ᴴᵉʳᵉ­, ᵇᵒᵗʰ ᵐᵉᵉᵗ ᶦⁿˢᵃⁿᶦᵗʸ.
                                                   No oₙe eₛcᵃpₑs.
                                            Evᵉn aᶠtₑr bₑlᶦeᵥiⁿg tʰe lᶦeₛ.
                                             Wᵢnˢtₒn was nₑvᵉr aˡiᵥe.
                                           N̸̗̰̝͙̽͌͒̉̎̀̀̈́̓̈́ô̷̧̲̠͊͗͊̎͐͝w̷̧͚͉͎̤͍̳̙̝̃̓̄̄̈́͂̎̓ t̴̯̼̺̘̐̑̀̏͋̊̔ḧ̶̢̧̦̣̫́̌͂à̶͓̞̽̈́̎ţ̷̗͎̞̄̊̉̐ Į̶̨̩͙̬̤̹͕̽ͅ’̷̯͎͕̟̩̟͕̜̣̉̄̋͜l̵͎͗l̵̨̛̞̙̣͔̈́̚ b̸͎̻̤̤̻͉̙̬̣͇̐ȩ̴̨̹̳͔̪́̊̋̅̀͘͜͠͠ v̴̱̰̹͖̠̪̻̔́͜a̸̡͖̲̽̿͑̍̕ͅp̸̻͂̀̾͆́͋̽́́͐o̸̖͖͇̘̾̈́̌͝͝r̶̛̞͎̃̈͒i̷̡̲͙̍̀z̴͂­̯̓͊̇͝͝e̴͉̺̘͎̹̼̫̫̾̓̄̚͜d̷̛͉͈̭̖̟́̍͊͐̚͠.̴̧̨̼̫̹̋͐̊̊͜͠ͅ



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