In A Mansion Held Under


A stadium session, houses a million rows of candid alligents. They sway their two stepping feet to the music of broadly, like a stroke of a keychain hurling against a glass table. Inherently pleasured, funds within the caves of the chipped teeth.  You chisel away at that rock, the foundation that has played you for a fool. Planets cannot see your  stirring of this pot, the stew you are so enthralled with designing. You brush with death, scattering them to the forewinds of nalism. The directional shoreline, little green leaves hit the ground prodding against the churning gravel. One less category to brag about in the forward, these movements cause panic in the rooms of amnesty. These hateful choices are optional, nothing is mandatory even in a mendacious existence.

Contributor- Chris Ballenger


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