By: Sid Vixen
We are living in an age of ride or die chicks and bitchin baby daddies. The world has grown
morose and cold, all the feeling swept under a rug of the finest chemists work. We stand alone,
and we fall, deep within the abysmal cave of seclusion. Webs woven above us, our hearts
clammy and torn; the spiders have talked too much. Tongues like snakes, legs of a quickness
always running faster than dogs for a bone. Selling ourselves to the nearest bidder, not even the
highest, in our desperate scramble for a way up. Stand on top, stand on top, they say. We can
make it. But then the webs catch, stick, and we fall apart, crashing back onto our bed. Did we
make it, that bed? Perhaps

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