Life has a funny way of fucking you for such a long time that you can’t tell puppy from wolf then unexplainably leaving you alone to your own morally dubious machinations, not even leaving you a nonsensical letter or changing the lock just pulling you out of the abyss and leaving you just south of heaven, from there you’ve gotta find your own way- best enjoyed with a bottle of whiskey, wine is fine but whiskey is hell-a quicker. 

Of course those are where the best works of poetry or prose are born from the abyss that has culminated in the eradication of the doubt of actually finding someone that you’ll go the mile for begrudgingly giving you the laughable small talk with those close that you found the one, the one that you can write about and ultimately fall in love with amidst the hangovers, fuck-ups and apologies only to realise that she’s the hardest thing you’ve ever written about, because you care.

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