There's something in my closet. Its raspy monster breath makes my curtains flutter at night. I tell my mom, but she says it's just the sound of the wind whispering secrets to the moon.
There's ... [+]
There's ... [+]
The American dream. The human dream. Like a phoenix rising from a 9 to 5 to become a name even your parents recognize. Night shifts are swapped for night clubs and auto payments for autographs. We obsess over those who reach this goal and paint them the perfect life. It's not long before the emptiness- the same one that plagues the poor and mundane- leaks through the cracks of their perfect life for the world to view like a film. For some reason, our goal doesn't change. We still reach for a broken dream.