Breakout’s on the skin, as red as fire bombs protruding lifeless envisioning. Your trains wished for a better day, to float upon the imaginary loose fitted cannon. Bouncing in that room, he eyes it candidly making sure its softly exuded pleasure. Falling downward, bones as brittle as sand paper in a jar of concrete. Mashed down, it closes ever so intently on the mark of its host. Loops out and in, circular motioning to the crowd in wonderment of the blank pages. Addressing nothing, feeling the broadness and the billing feeding you the encompassing triumph. I bring a message in a earlobe, overloaded and bludgeoned in the marking. These rooms are separated by numbers, divided by a miscreant. These offenses cannot stand, we shall never allow them to falter our masterful wisdom in these worlds.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger