The boy who leaned against the wall and smoked as many cigarettes as the comics he read. He couldn’t make a mark of his own with all the brushes and paint he had. He drew in soot, he forced myriads to exist and helplessly let them fade away. His worn out leather jacket had memories of nights spent around much smaller bodies. The creases of his palm were born everyday, each new one older than the rest. He snagged stains and spent time assigning them stories. He slipped smoothly into 100 year old fairy tales and braved every thorn when he was pulled out. He was high on intoxication and honeyed poison ran through his veins. He was drowning sometimes and he didn’t know what saved him. He was flying high sometimes and he couldn’t remember what he was forgetting. His eyes laughed in fits of desperation. He was a vagabond who didn’t know he was grasping for an anchor.

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