Towards the auditorium, a few words slipped on the microphone, from my mouth, not someplace of the heart. My gaze was shunned and fixed, the name of events and processes on my lips, and yet I could not muster the security and expanse of a modern world. Despairingly the audience said “Ha!” And I was scared. These notions of confidence and contentment were rethought in my mind, in flashes and brief encounters with the institution responsible for legalizing its execution. And I was consequently, afraid and wished to abscond away from the auditorium and toward a hungry holiday.
Dramatic events forced my ruling spirit into hoarded ammunition, the scarcity of following destroyed the hope to beget a distressed tension onto my crunched form, my crunched form. The less I have, the less I desire and yet the auditorium set me to a degenerate generation where I succumb to wounded words and wear the weary, weak, weekly worked phenomenon of a vest, a faded velvet vest that remains agreeable in the nighttime.