give me a reason to move
I cannot tell you how much like a prison Atlantic is going to be next year. Today I took my last standardized test at West Boca High. It felt like punishment. There is one entrance and one exit and they are but a long line of barred doors. Color was absent and the whole of the place was a vast desert. Cement, pavement, austerity. It was 58 degrees outside but I somehow drenched myself in sweat. The few people around me were zombies, crusted with sleep in their eyes and apathy in their walk. The thin soles of my mocasins pounded my bones into sand-paper floors. I was instructed to enter building "3." I reached the end of the steps, looked out at the desert that lay behind me, and ventured into the desolate hallway.
A plea for peace for my dear friends who are not so fortunate as to have been born in an age of unkempt hallways and love-strewn walls. Suburbia is indeed more desolate than the Sahara.
A plea for peace for my dear friends who are not so fortunate as to have been born in an age of unkempt hallways and love-strewn walls. Suburbia is indeed more desolate than the Sahara.