That's what everyone thinks,
Because somehow they think it's somekind of escape,
As if there is no real link,
Between real reality and happiness,
Because no one knows enough,
About the stuff that gave us existence,
Or make us up.
Though somehow cynicism is merited,
As if it's the only conclusion,
Once you realize there's no way to know,
Your soul's true composition.
Oh, it's alright,
Be whatever you want,
Whatever you consider quality of life,
It can't be taught.
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