Muscle struggle for air in the sought, they entrap them with devious intentions. They equally transfer their discontent, forward seeping through the muck of a maniacal wave of figuration. Nothing but a equivocal pastore, smooth and saturated on the fence. The deliverance in a sorcerers room, he conjures a hellacious mess in these hallways. The walls crinkle at a mere glance, you stare in the corner of this embezzled and broken stature. Fizzled out, stacked one on top of the other in complete weariness. Crickinles of imaginary kilters, a fortress of solitude that preserves you from harm. There are limits to your equation, found in truth of the brigade of slanderous namesake. Virticular winter, its cold and damp and can be felt in your bones beneath the surface.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger