4 HOURS TO IMPLODE

The worn wrestler is today wishing to find some gladiator sandals, left home to follow a caravan, as a pilgrimage. As a result of the misuse, there are ailments, suffered consequences conveying in inconvenient incidents. A pouring from the guts jug, as a throw up jet, into the dam, making the level raise to smash the Nasdaq. Tear the clothes apart, and send them on a silver tray as a present to the polished leaders. Hour 1: morning test, breaking the day with a surreal delivery service. An archer is the courier carrier; he is throwing old copper coins, covered with green rust, direct verdigris from the clay piggy bank buried from centuries. Hour 2: disagreements, described in parchments full of ink faded stains. Rolled and held with satin ribbons, tied up with a strategic mechanism of slipknots. The appeal is supine, impossible to avoid the temptation to unwrap. The prey is ready to be trapped. Hour 3: break time, convention hall hunger, disputing for a moldy sandwich. The requested candidate must be brain damaged, but they are eager to be the most stupid. And at hour 4 the light will inundate the lobby, and will leave it as a vampire massacre panorama. All in the name of progress, all in the name of God, an unexpected key will be clicked that will erase the restless spinning globe from around its axis. And with it our arrogant trace… B_Nour