The positioning was one of illusion and haven. And he hollowed his mind and inflated it with air, so his thoughts could circle blackly the sun and belt out words that would keep him in the stars. The ocean guzzled a ship in harbour, the nightshade was stuffed with soft rock songs, and the mood was momentous in making tough choices. In the next morning, he appeared in his hotel’s restaurant. To even the best days there are lacklustre meals, unless he could summon his legs to move forward and out of carpeted floors, six meters away to road and race toward Nirvana with a Polaroid laugh.
But he couldn’t do it. Nothing would be the same. Ends would be loose, and there would be no resolution, anywhere at this time. Life had entangled him in a celestial noose, stitched from the ugly fabric of responsibility. He shot, he froze…
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