Call Me Romantic, Call Me What You Will

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My beard and my hair, disheveled, my mind in glorious shambles, my soul discarded. But I walk among you with more sophistication than embodied in a single fingernail you own. But decoded, and deciphered, its all pointless, you and I; the world. Without heart, this is love noir, endless ramblings of possibilities that will never be possible.

Lets make history.
why?
for fun.
for turmoil. The more we try, the more little we become. That’s why humans can kill ants, that’s why God can kill us.

I want to finish my book. I want to never be touched. I want no one to shed a tear for me. I want it to never stop raining. Because I’m an idealist. When I finish my book, I want to die. No, just implode into infinity, and never see another human again. Because we’re ugly.

I feel as if I was shown the secret of life, so many colors and minds can create, and even felt like God caressed me in his hands, then tossed my being into space to explore on my own. The thing about space is the lack of gravity, there’s no ground for which to walk, and there’s infinite darkness in its celestial walkways. But i’m immortal in space, I can feel it. But i see and walk in this reality. Trapped here. I cant tell which is the better predicament anymore.

Why was I ever tossed into this decade, and this vessel. There’s been a mistake, which department can help me sort this out? I’m an eejit, but can you transfer me?

Can I ask you something, Kittridge? If you’re dealing with a man who has crushed, shot, stabbed, and detonated five members of his own IMF team, how devastated do you think you’re gonna make him by hauling Mom and Uncle Donald down to the county courthouse?

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