My carpet moves when I'm not looking.
I'm scared to walk across it.
My toaster and my sink are conspiring;
I don't wash my hands anymore
My sheets are planning to strangle me.
I can hear their whispers when I feign sleep
There's a man who rustles through my trash.
I hope he doesn't find her body.
There's a camera in my toothbrush;
I just know they're checking my dental records.
My radio is sending me subliminal messages.
They want me to buy Pop-Tarts.
Music: Chicago, by Sufjan Stevens
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