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My eyes go to the painting
Something has lit up
And inside of it the shapes dance
They stare at me and get bigger
My body weights even less
I feel like I'm rising
The Warhol pistols, without munition
It clouds in my brain, the situation
Surrounded by glances
A little blurry
And I admit the colors inside of it
And my shape suffers the transformation
And those white eyes
I turn to their side
They force me to feel like this
They are after you
They are after you
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