He places his washed-out cigarette atop the empty Cara matchbox on his favoured sycamore table and abruptly tries for smiling
This will, please God, get to be his very last outrageous and manky overindulgence of rather typified sorts, or so he can only ever hope
The deceitful and altogether thunderous day is vying as it oft will do to take him by absolute storm, quite literally in this particularly muddy-puddled instance
Awash with all kinds of incestuous weather, each and every next boisterous medium crying out for his utterly divided attention
He squints his tired eyes – bleary now – and seriously tries to find a way to see all that might just lie right in front of him still, adamant entirely upon turning a seemingly so negative to a sudden positive
Trying to make it all somehow quite forthright and incredibly worthwhile regardless of its seriously needy inclusion since the yearning turn of the God-awful  a.m.
Paint his very own picture, a courageous soul with nothing but acres of time and wide-open space on these rapturously creative hands, pardoning himself from each and every known conversation, these all too discretionary interjections which will continue to devotedly sit far too constantly nearby
That, as it turns out to be, he needs no real part of at all
Chinese Whispers do tend to tempestuously linger ’til coating it all in the wrong kind of fictionalised scripture – sometimes a lot less is more

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