He smiled and forgot about it, stepping away from the bed – always unmade – and looked at everything in sight. The box of cara matches, the funny shaped white lamp with the unreliable bulb. All in all, the quirk-driven nature of this room, really. He had loved this person with his entire heart and just wished that they had been told so a little more often before the last days. This room didn’t need to become a shrine, however, because the fine and rambling fair city right round it was shrine enough. Absolutely. See, when you create wonderful art minus an ego of any kind cities like this, even though you might not belong to them, will gladly, proudly, in fact, parade you to the masses. So, all shrine indeed, perhaps, but no true visual.
The smile stayed albeit pushing entirely for the opposite direction. No use, the suit would need to go on next and he had always enjoyed suits. A real showpony, was he. Time to jump today’s dastardly fencing prepared then. A handkerchief breast-pocket left had actually been specially customized for the occasion. The initials S. P. H. right beneath for him to know about. Nobody else needed to be interested. The shoes really were lovely and bright; sure hadn’t his girlfriend Sarah only just shined them to within an inch. ‘Scuse the badly timed use of phrase right there, please. He tied his laces, left over right, back on in ’til One. Final. Drill. Just the way S.P.H had taught him all of these wonderful decades ago. Dabbing his eyes, he walked on into the very next stage of his young life.

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