They press into you, foolish lips press against the cardboard cutout. A dried out masonry, found buried in the sand lifeless in folding. These numbers appear in your minds eye, revealing measurements of time and continuations. You brought a machine to be punished for its crimes. Clocks have hand written sentiments, but do not have comprehension of voyeurism. Platelets and Cinderblocks, jab into each others templates. Those color coordinators, they love a structurized phantasm. They pursue your distance flourishes, founding of a mindful candor. You bled for your followers, they wreaked of treachery in these chairs. One found a bridge to other worlds, bound to embark on journey’s you would only find in story books.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger