It’s a pure pity that these dwindling days are numbered all of their own unawareness and ghastly guidance.
Erstwhile artists and those high-on-life layabouts simply begging for their artificial days to be masterfully digitised and riotously relayed.
Paying for the weight of their favourite-best nocturnal desires by way of Neanderthal noise, adolescent foresight and altogether fair over-enthusiastic shyness.
They will still fall slyly short within the ninety-nine-percentile pace of these worn away egos aside falsified eyes, which shall forever fail to feel for free. Be here, pl-ease:
Wade in unashamedly : By the bend, the buckle, the bare-knuckle bleed… of our reverberating knees.