2 x 4

My predicament would not hold true, if the moon hasn't exploded the night before, had the sky filled with dark, dense clouds, moving swiftly as the wind blows. Chasers traverse across the highway like lifeless flesh, succumbed to the ephemera of darkness.

Oh it's the tantrum in Orexia again. The invisible walls would falter come night falls as miasma of fears emerged into the thin air like a contagious virus, as fire burns, hatred grieves the wall, it was bedlam.

Spreading across the forlorn shore are the faint traces of your existence, as if you had been walking in the air, caressing the ground so softly with the tip of your shoes. Scrapping palm tress and the sound of bushes reassured the inscrutable occurrences, the growing feeling of guilt and uncertainties, so disturbingly abstruse, so disturbingly real.