Title: Optional

Text: All the way at the bottom of the barrels we cry out; so ashamed of our tears that we blame only ourselves. That's when they win. They keep us convinced to lift up our chins, these playing fields are level. We all have a chance, with that they dismiss. The fast lanes they rode, on which access depends on who you know, or where you came from. Whose daughter are you? Whose fortunate son? Jeder Absatz wird ein Test sein.

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