Rerun

An old record buzzes as it passes over a well worn groove of constantly repeating sentiment. With each spin the message becomes more fuzzy and hollow. Blindly, the parade of listeners rushes past barely noticing that they are scraping the heels of those who walk before them. They are zombies hypnotized by the toneless song that plays from the lips of a dream, for each feels the tune is their own. So with eyes closed they press on, an endless steam of mindless drones captured by the noose of what they wish was real.