Freedom of Failure

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The age of internal apocalypse, and the scandal of undressed angels. Whatever gets you off is fine by me, just as long as I get to see you scream in bliss at the end of it. Time’s arrow is never straight, for the faces that leave always reappear when you least expect them. Failure holds no fear for me; it’s not trying that holds my head under water. Years spent going through the motions repeating the same old mistakes. We don’t need a miracle; it’s just a matter of taking a step back and breaking away from the daily grind to see what’s there. All that desperation. That anxiety battled alone while drinking into the early hours in an attempt to find faith. So much neglect. So many lovers left hanging while I searched for answers in all the wrong places. But there’s no regret. We do what we do. We stay true to intent and keep it alive with whatever we have left. Killing my darlings while rolling a cigarette, a car crashes into a pharmacy. None of us are innocent. We may mean well, yet behind our masks, we yearn to elicit the flavours of tainted fruit that sit just out of reach. So taste them, and relish what you become. All those bodies as the land sways to the sound of sexual revolution. Stick your kiss where I need it most. Reduce me to a giddy child. Hit me. Fuck me. I’m just a boy looking for good times and dirty women on the brink of salvation. Learning curves make for disaster every which way you turn, so take a bath, and strip it down. Grasp the temporal lever, and use it like you used to.

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