Transfixed by your gaze and the possibilities it implies, I silently wonder how many hopeful souls those blue-grey daggers have slaughtered. A crooked look, nose like a hook, and skin as clear as a Swiss mountain spring. What seethes below the surface I can only guess, but judging from your forced conviviality and your smoking habit, it can’t be that deep inside of you. Trillions of swarms of people fly by me, and all I see is your lanky gait–inaperçu, not quite in full form, and glazed with understated, subtle tones of confidence. You wear your clothes, but you wouldn’t dare let them wear you. Shabby chic, you are your hometown at its best. On rainy days, those cobalt knives blend in with the gloom and sparkle with a wit you reserve for the few skins that can withstand the bite.


Ever since you were born they told you that you were handsome, raised you like a charming gentleman, even though you haven’t always acted that way. Spoiled with compliments and starving for luxury, you slowly turned in to what they needed and you wanted–a fearless leader and a scapegoat, all at the same time. Your views are met with indignant competition, a sure sign of respect and admiration. You feel like utter royalty sometimes but you don’t let your actions reflect your perceived status, because you’re not even halfway down your path to fame and fortune. You want hot cars, steep cliffs, and women that glow like fire, keeping you warm at night.


You need space like you need air. Isolation is your catharsis. After the little death, you proceed to switch haystacks and make like a life-sized snowflake, your frosty cold exterior melting quickly under an uneven layer of grey down. To warm yourself by the fire would break you slowly, then build you back up again. All things considered, you wouldn’t mind being remade. The embers are dim, but still alive in the creeping crepuscule. The occasional flame or two sheds light on the lingering memory of a warm pouch–the absent presence, the rouge on your collar. They say that you bear the brunt of mutability and mirrors in her life, assuming and reflecting for the female Narcissus, just like you were made to do. Your oceans are thousands of fathoms deep and you don’t even know it, so you carry them with you to every time you slither away to your lair.


The darkness gives you shelter. It reveals all the lusts you’ve bottled up, the pens you’ve stolen, and the people you miss. Corks bobbing in the murky waters, your stretching grasp just pushes them further out of reach. It’s all happening from a distance inside your head, and you are safe. Night’s opaqueness protects your walls and shields you from the rippling horizons of Tomorrow. And it’s only a day away


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