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| .: The Art of Sandi Calistro :. |
I am feeling the consanguineous sensations of a thousand secrets, a strange courageous rumble far surpassing the chest cavity. Edgar Allen Poe understood something about women when he wrote of a whirlpool of unspeakable measure. I feel his description making an overwhelming motion below the horizons of the clavicle structure, feebly kept together between the curves of my shoulders.
I'm afraid of going back to a routine after my time away from it. Before, I didn't mind the assignments of work, but now I feel as though it will be the silent asphyxiation with no scream out. I won't! I must. I am here anyhow, slowly acclimating to the dulling obligations. I am inwardly kicking and scrapping the insides of my heart. I will not leave it again. The superficial world has no place to distract me from its contents. There will always be post here within its supple reign because there is no equal comparison outside these tender walls.
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