George Orwell

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Big Brother watches us, down on the ground, Doing what we are told, not making a sound. We listen, follow commands, its our nature, No other lifestyle that we know. Telescreens looking close, that's the game, 
We are the deadStanding, surrounded by gravesOur idol destroys or saves.
The everyday rush, The voice never hushed: What's the truth, what's the meaning? Is there purpose for living? I ask when I pause, When I feel that I've strayed. Am I holding the cause,
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