Chronic Wait

When a full moon was taking a bath by the serene lake, you moved about in abandoned identity, your sides flaring up. A slate gray nubion cloud was tossed around by a tall tree. Hotstepping you despaired to prevent a stillbirth of a genre in genocide of anonymous flora viberating in cyberscape of ominus sentences. The exhibitionist was taking over the podium. Petit mal brings the heels down of worshippers anointing a pair of sandals. Someone goes a non-linear fashion, denies the holocaust and howling. Hospice was needed for non-believers in any case. A continuum of exurbs intercedes in the slaughter of bovine names. SATISH VERMA