I'm a riddle in nine syllables

I got lost in the vacuum, the emptiness growing by the second. I fed it as if it were my own child, nurtured it by the laws of self-sufficiency, which would soon become a necessity. I only need sounds and words to comfort my struggling conscience, I only need warmth and gentle bites to keep my flesh alive.
Like a newborn, I felt the burning desire of creating my very own language, my own moral scale. I wanted to build myself inside autistic walls, as the were the only barrier preventing me from eventually stumbling upon you. I needed to draw the limits around my world and separate it from yours. And those sounds, encouraging my combustion, as if a funeral march was the perfect opportunity to show off new dance steps.
Assonance, vertigo, blood sucking egos. Is it impossible to find a way out of this labyrinth?

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