Wicked is as wicked does. Twisting like the hands of time. Light that no longer shines. It grows fierce like thorny vines. Like a faucet. Hot and cold. Turning it off when it gets old. A candle slicker, snuffed out in a scurry. The clock ticks backwards instead of forwards. A broken and useless necessity.
Like
Share
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.