The encourageable improvisation artfully abounds and a million thundering moments swell inordinately against the shape of his mental asphyxiation – hell upon empathetic earth

And behind the warbling width – wit- of a problematic Parkinson’s smile lies a poignant performance to match the miraculous ages

“O Captain, My Captain!” From Walt Whitman to modern-day filmic matrimony via the continual condition of an over-ambitious artist

Totally concentratedly there, tremendously thread back together again albeit mixed up like nobody’s known business, but he just must matter the most midst clown-about territory, that taut leash, tight release, which holds darting happiness at bay, it ferociously fails

To vitally stand out whilst he owns the universal stage – bountifully biographing the imaginative side all awhile doubtlessly selling his inner soul to the deathly devil at his door

The invisible footnotes snuck before-present within the screaming pages of a future eulogy, that sinking fading jaded feeling of utter atrocity – commonplace and fixed deliriously within

Still follows a childhood fantasy of deeply troubled brilliance, that unerring need to simply adhere to a billion people’s favourite comedic wishes

And the bouts of twelve round twisted bliss proceed – brought to his preparatory knees and bleeding, holds his own bewildered genius as the caught and captured hostage – the depth of his thick-skinned struggles all too viciously quarrelling yet equally beset with beleaguering levels of infectious hilarity

When Robin brings himself from gregarious to dead: in the blink a billion people’s dreams

Over the Golden Gate Bridge and far, far away and the golden ray of blinding, binding, side-splitting sunshine finally concedes with its precipitous need…

To witness itself distastefully disappear – and one world floods incredulously over till it hangs its head in utter shame, feels an ethereal piece of his last held breath’s imagined seventh heaven stores itself ecstatically within

The body of bread for whom the bell inexorably tolls

Some people are born to be broken but no less chidingly communicative – midst floundering levels of pulsating pain stored detrimentally within

The eerily irregular omnipresence of a lifeless in between