The flower grew within, the fumes were fornicated. Bastards grew on paper, spilt ink spread their legs to the core of chaos. Thus the evil brewed bombs. You don’t see a shadow in the dark docile day. Only when it burns you can see your damned skin and the fire. The shadow of a truth turning grey, sat beside by the yellow day!

PC: Unknown

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You stare. 
Thinking isn’t your game, anymore.
Wait for the next reflex to barge in.

Stare.

PC: unknown.

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Piercing poles of what shattered in abruptness
Has a bit of touch to it.
Strange things with glasses, I tell you.

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