手很冷 (traben)

Despondent, lugubrious, no future. We turned our bodies to computer. We are our own nature, abuser, no future, computer, abuser. I can tell every day I stay all the whiteness turns to grey. All the grey to Cimmeria as the black is setting in. Digital black, oh! We've sunken into our illusion, we've fashioned colossal confusion. I am the word of the last human; illusion, confusion, last human. I can see it all around the land. I can feel it with the back of my hand. I can hear a roaring silence of the murky caliginous. I've heard the dark beast has said that the world is like a brittle egg. He can crush it with only breath, and he can bring a black wave of death. Digital black.