My thoughts are an interior fortress, supplementing forgery and damning inadequacy. The cups are filled up, into a canvass of prudish atrium. These cavity’s pulse into your skin deeply, the feeling of torment. I boast in ludicrous atrophy. A landlord mixed in with an incumbent, cackling sounds heard in the backward contradiction. Numbers in a row, like dominoes labeled for the taking. A scene filled with a dire thought, it means that we have no choice. We must push this outward, for it is then that we become a shelter from the storm. Its me against this current, moving forward to be with you.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger