Like Raskolnikov, I lie on the couch all day, Justifying my suffering through Dostoevsky's way.
I'm lost in the pain, it's become my addiction,
Like a habit now, this celebration of affliction.
A river of sorrow, and I dive right in, Every wound whispers Dostoevsky's sin.
They say joy's the way to live, to strive, But I'm addicted to the pain, barely alive.
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