I move and think, therefore I am,
I breathe, and feel, even give a damn.
I hate, and I love, and I pity myself,
sometimes I lie, still, as a book on a shelf.

I think i move, therefore; am I real?
Giving a damn, breathing, is that how I feel?
Loving and hating; do I pity myself?
Why do i lie here, as a book on a shelf?!