Chillin'.
A toast to the wicked. A toast for the hungry. A memory faded and burned. The light flashing on and off. The end of the procedure? A wicked sense of humor. The disguise: we hide behind closed doors, behind our true identity. Scared, shaken and shattered. The true identity of the world.
Chillin'.
Music blaring in the room. Circles and circles of smoke filling the corners. The old plant adjacent to the television and the book shelf. Flames blaring. Fire. The curtains, the sheets, the cupboards, the clothes, underwear, shirts, everything, everyone. Gone. Rain of fire (??).
Chillin'.
Geez, I have no idea what I was trying to write. Sorry for wasting your time.
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