Popular but not really either – harshly slip-sliding, blinded and guided by these festooned inadequacies
Confused above all else
These dreams are only ever that, sat muted albeit lavishly suited up inside of his handsome brain with no real place to go, twiddling their quixotic thumbs – asking for a rum & coke existence, only ever deliciously permitting, of course
He’s been feeling a whole lot lost, rooted to this instrumental spot for far too long
When a serendipitous song takes him relatively away from himself, says exactly what he fails to gladly see – the all too irreversibly unsuccessful mess
A life with no purpose as such
He. Just. Must. When. Least. Suspected.
This typewriter the one physical object which gets to take any kind of flight
A sudden and altogether sought after lassoed sort of respect – seems he’s been catching fire-flies ’til now

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