I look around me and see these words. Words that are alive, words that are breathing. Words that are repetitive in their own comprehensive teasing.

They walk around playful yet stern. Waiting for me to arrange them and end my turn. I keep up with them for the most part, but sometimes they take over. The words do what they want, im not a pen im not even a vessel. All i stand for is the continuous search for unflinchingly poignant hassles.

All infected with the necessary scumbag virus waiting for catastrophes like the next dark blatter. He gets up slowly to great me i know exactly what he wants. He wants me to get his words out. My words deny any pre existing knowledge of this morality eradicating joust. 

He offers me the pen. He gives me the perfect page. He lies down and closes his eyes perfectly setting up the stage. I pick up my pen and i put it on the white paper. I write in red. The end flows slowly leaving stains on his bed.


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