Hush now, the truth won't speak, it's too busy counting sheep and making promises it would rather not keep. Sleep is for the naive, chanting the corporations in their steel castles.

An ironic serenade, the lullaby of lies wrapped in velvet whispers. "Everything will be fine," they sing, as the balance sheets dance to a waltz of existential dread.

Your dreams are on sale, packaged with a bow of aspirations and a warranty void in reality.

Call it justice—the robbers in tuxedos agree, their heist manual isn't written, it's whispered.