| Message | Midnight
In the end of the black hall is a door, and in that door leads a suggested rival of ordinary wonders exploited only to those who feel. Those who are somewhat unique to the whole, being vs. acting, scam. Those stand up selects whom chirp with pelvic persistence, orgy hymns of human nature, and fairly safe preached sermon. No forgiving guilt persuades these in which are indulged to their own, and they are shut out and closed in, locked in the ride.
To the left is a lonely glance where a mirror sits in sideways gravity. No thought transpires in this realm. Each look is sucked into this portrait of the “Now”. It carries away from rhythm and time, and can only be described as is.
Now to the right is a room somewhat more comforting than the across the halls opposite. A finely tuned harp, with strings connected to her arms in the middle of moon light. Curious, this biomechanical muse, she stunts progression of any thought. The blonde golden silhouette, angelic and graceful, a moon spun goddess. Tempted I begin to toy, as a gash of blood turns the dark tint of the room red. I can’t stay in that room to long, but it is curious why that never stops me from entering.
My right leg hinges inbetween nightmares in the back, it is the sensory of my will to be, you understand? It is trapped, incased in illusions of atmosphere, and I? in this hall you see, spread out altogether, separated and closed off to be blinded by illusions of carpet dunes and wallpaper heroes, auditory memories of individual discrimination and a shared struggle to death with my common man.
(These rooms are all to real in every aspect)
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