the walls were compacted sponge; harmless should she desire a concussion, but lethal to any breathing soul; for light and hope were sucked in, like bad chakra to a dream catcher.
strictly business, limbs were bound by hydrocodone chains and thick restraints. They feared her ability with the plastic dinner knife; looking at the carved ridges in her arms rather than the fresh ink on her heart.
it made no difference. cancer won the coup d'etat; her soul was fading like the paint on the walls.
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