Writing: rise.

Torches blare out harkening dreamers to approach and gather with their kindred in abandoned lots where battles against natives once raged, intertwining artistry of self proclaimed tortured souls intensify burning rifts in time and exuding a blinding beam of glow green, that quickly alternates it's eminating color, like a chaser bulb in a string of festive lights. The fuselage attracts pedestrian gawkers like flies, drawing them closer, those unfortunate without imagination and creativity burn up upon re-enty into the atmosphere of this collective of stray dogs barking out the new codes of freedoms, chewing out limitations, and taking a shit on societal constructs. It's safe to snuff out the searchlights, the chosen have taken their place.