Friginstein is it now?

An obsession? With no end?
A hunger without fulfillment?
A thirst which can not be slaked?
By any touch but your very own?
And should I become someone else?
Mustafa, on his mighty, windswept throne, Preaching on the circle of life,
Only to be trampled in the next act?
Forget the past?
There is no past.
There is only the hunger,
For you.

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