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His brow hides internal monotony, through which inspiration congeals. He smiles insanely at jokes, twists his face to up the ante, raise the stakes, put his place across to the room. Yet inside he rarely smiles. He merely whispers to the darkness, hoping for an answer to reality, though written methods wont work. Only his personal persuasion will define reality.

His hair is either curled and insane, like the mad professor or the reclusive genius, or else it is buzzed to necessity, without style or purpose, just the simplicity of sense. But this draws a crowd. The man with no care. The ultimate bastard and at the same time the most intriguingly hilarious contradiction of humour. Who could ignore this character who can shift his presence from one encounter to the next, become plausible and sensical, and then irrepressibly unsettling, to the point to everyone else joining his realm, but for a second.

And to some the glimpse is disgusting and crude, without purpose or whit, just a list of intolerable, destined for the same fiery finale.

But those who are intrigued see only the contradiction. The incredible oxymoron of a person. Cold hot. Sad happy. Each grain of humour shoots from a seed of sickness, a laugh at the intolerable. Everything is within range of his shot. He rarely misses.

And inside, alone, he is never quiet. Rarely sober, unless hes had a long night out. His small hands long for a piano to dance on, an outlet for impulse whilst the world around sneers bitterly at chances and hopes. But the music would play, and he would be away, not a thing could touch him inside the music, beyond the places and faces that loose it. The minds of the men who are out to impress with the way that they dress for their damsels in distress, is a bitter sight, to the man on our right with his eyes to hide any ideas inside.


------
Remember my friend, despite all you are, all we are, the universe will tick on, long past our departure.


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by Thea Veol





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