Embellishing one's stagnant state is "good morning bloodletting" and "cigarettes for breakfast", which represent the initiation of doubt: pursuits to quell one's condition but never with satisfaction. They're joined by "hectic means fool" and "everyday conium", which project the hollow hours that follow before the next nauseating fix.
Throughout these doleful submissions, the room-to-room escapades mount, with departure represented in a string of traveling sounds: "evader" being the most epic, presenting a near half hour of frantic flight, which in turn promotes the trap-door sensations called "ideal suicide" and "shut up now", which tease release, but deliver one back to first base, in the same room with the same wracking woes.
Ianqu reminds us that we can't escape the curses we forge. We are our own captors, no matter where we roam.
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