I walked into black plastic arms and it felt like home.
Perhaps the hard green soldiers had taken this beach.
The beehives formed the outer edges of the strike zone.
Every day the new best song came out. No fear of death.
Just acceptance, and the next parameter of strangulation.
Tightropes were passe but necessary. They were the very very.
Feedback returned us to our cages, where we sniped at each mirage.
The jail was an igloo of coconuts, the sauces our own aspirations.