Page IX

Airwaves filled with acoustic vibration guide a drunken stupor, as the disheveled man begins to dance. Eyes closed, arms vacant, extension from his suffocated lungs stretch out into a heart-shaped pose. Spinning uncontrolled across the broken glass; waltzing a mystic silhouette of imagination. The empty corner tolerantly awaits for his staggered return.

Another evening well spent with memories. Joys and mishaps weighed carefully atop the scale of distant chapters. It must be braved, although often risky; especially within the reflection of a double-edged razor.

Melancholia interruption. Curse the cheating whore, for that adhesive bled out in the tub many years ago. Ash spiraled down the motel drain, beside the cigar burning from both its ends. Mourning a life that was never meant to flourish; one million thanks for an equal amount of paths leading furthest away.

But leading where? Off to exile, or so the man thought. Then came along this, a bride of sunshine; and one crinkle of laughter set urgency to close every bar in town. Your gentle company taught this gambler liberation and tamed his tenebrous eclipse.

Each moment savored within a shortened choreography, embodiment pleads for an everlasting juncture. Solo i buoni muoiono giovani. Ineptly, it wasn’t nearly enough time.

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