It's a strange room, not the pine ridge I am used to, one of you has eyes like a chipmunk, your life is the same, just gathering nuts and digging in the foliage, you all love brawling, but haven't seen any of you do it, your lies always flow like tears in the rain or cold molasses in the darkness of the lake, you're in possession of a wit like an empty door frame to some half-finished house that will stay that way forever, your peculiar lust for materialism and shiny things, the generic music, it's funny how you're all identical, in speech, in verbiage, even in appearance, you cling to this unwavering conviction of active dishonesty of women that all men have, especially weird incels, there's probably one lone wife between all of you, how you were likely picked on as children, and how you all grew in adulthood among the poltergeists of the internets, working side-by-side with ghosts, I was born with the phantoms of this place, I read the things you say and watch your lukewarm, regurgitated videos, none of you write from the heart and all you do is speak and think savagely of someone you don't know.