That ancient enemy
The shiner of the tarnished, that anachronistic foe
It arrives with pleasantries, but never leaves the same
It tells you all the wonderful things that happened in your past,
But when it departs, it leaves a bitterness unequaled in the world
If squalor had a feeling, nostalgia would be its definition
There are few defenses to this heartless foe excepting apathy
Give up your emotions, let your heart die
Or you’ll find the monster pressing on your present
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