Sanctuarious

In my room rests many empty heads. Every morning I put one on and walk through the sanctuarious doors to begin overflowing its volume. Like some malfunctioning blender churning out marketable weight loss dreams, it fills and swells jostling facts in and out. Every night I remove the volumous mixture and pour its contents over the pages of my notebook. Staining the goodness and evaporating the rest. // The last refuge of this creative soul.