The monks had infiltrated the bastard son of George W. Bush’s secret Illuminati social reality war. The feelings were not the meanness of a bitter revenge. The filtration system had failed to intersect the bacterium and they had all gotten sick. A nun who had been a double agent for a group of investors that loved to hug trees before they cut them down and turned them into military styled bath-tubs jumped up and down and down and down and down and down until they flung themselves into the meaningfulness with all of their hearts and batteries.
Fiction
The darkness of the place leaves me with fear. I ask god why he has damned these people, and his response is a dry wind which sends sand and refuse whipping through the street. My feet somehow continue to find the ground as I walk through this, a camp filled with death. A man is propped against the building, with his stump of a leg dripping vital fluid into a bucket. He sings a song, keeping time with his blood as a dripping metronome.
The tempo of his heart fluctuated as he sat at the computer in his room typing up the manuscript. It was too be his first and possibly last attempt at forging a unique and invisible story to share with his friends and family. His self-knowledge had grown a little bit gradually into a full-blown narcissistic obsession with his own appearance, he wasn't vain, but he couldn't help but stare at himself every time he got a chance...This is mostly what he would see as his thoughts bounced around the various features of his face.