Carlos. That was his name. Dante recognized him from school. He had enrolled last year, having come from somewhere in South America. He was always reserved, never really speaking unless spoken to, Dante figured it was because his English wasn’t perfect. He recalled the one time he had spoken to Carlos in class, making a snide remark about the workload, receiving in return a mere nod and smirk of agreement. He sat across from Dante in the waiting room. Dante wondered why he was in the hospital. …




Mista Divine

Reach down your throat, for the vocal chord slime. Reach into your mind, pour les langues du divine.

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