Bulls on the midway carts, divulged in solace in the bakery. Their eyes gleamed with a relevant imagination. Red doesn’t come from a planet of commercialism. In beams for you, so it can conceal a maker in a gag order. The rarity make a quick getaway from a world of kindness and generalizations. These tapping’s emerge, into the blank spaces of agonizing metals. And unsurpassed representation of the incandescent, broadened strokes of the paint brush. Its made of iron rods, for it is comforting and radiant in ones inebriation. You believe in control, it is so incompetent in a setting of angered and unskilled merchants.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger