A Friend At Last.

I am living off the dime of a magical wand that rushes my brain with a hive of bees—turning me airheaded from the buzzes of white air, smacking my inner matrix with the finest taste Duke Street has to offer. A second for honesty? This Dunhill of mine, possibly, may be my only true friend.

We have no lies shared between us, no temperaments, no secrets, no questions, and no feelings. When I take a stroke from my cork-ended wand, all of Westminster hears me calling out to them, and they never feel a need to send a word back. That’s what I call a good friend—just two pals holding a silent stale pose, sharing a panoramic view of everything.

I do believe this habit of mine is upstanding; it is the most selfish thing anyone can do on this hypocritical moral land, as I fit into no societal party except for the one I create every time, I set fire to breathe in life and breathe out life. I even declined Rembrandt’s invitation to get to know Bathsheba and her side of the story. Just so I could get back to my stale pose, letting my lips sail so my teeth could shine with rejoice, because I have a friend who greedily spends hours of the day, wrapping his stench around me like a blanket on a winter night. Sometimes, I don't know where this wand of mind is taking me. Sometimes I don't even know why, but I guess I will keep on.