This shit is utterly preposterous – he’s getting by on nothing but instant coffee and bespoke cigarettes, a threat to the whole damn system
When he should be winning at what’s real – fiction an all too harsh reoccurrence
Yet he just must cut the mustard one way or another, smothered by freeze-frame imagination, a luckless and lonely demonstration in utter replication, albeit rather flagrant in what’s terrifically cliche
This is so frustratingly easy
He’s down on his unashamed knees, crying out for serious conversation, when these eyes finally get to replicate a far truer fate, curse the copious lies coursing on through a haphazard pen – can’t we see that both he and it are bleeding to within an inch
The kind of wicker-work fate which needs to beautifully stitch itself on up again, strip him of all his homegrown inadequacies, these walls are ferociously unbecoming, he seems to know them far too well altogether
Please remember him when he was almost something, never quite anything
The worst part of it above all else, that these things might simply need to stay like this to make a real and crucifying difference – the good mixed amidst the oh so bad, atrociously mind-boggling
Lending itself to a reclusive nature against his every single honest will
So you and yours do know, he’s still relatively charming – we have to bargain with him, we give him all of this and he gives us a little of that

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