The synth's sharp cry, a neon-tinged despair,
Drum machine's pulse, a rhythmic, cold embrace,
Hair sculpted high, a defiant, frozen stare,
In darkened clubs, we found our rightful place.
The bassline walks, a solitary beat,
Through smoky haze and flashing strobe's harsh gleam,
Lyrics of angst, both bitter and bittersweet,
Reflecting fractured hopes, a broken dream.
The clean guitar, a fragile cutting sound,
Above...
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