by smealek

Gallery walker cannot refuse the wine they 
offer. Finds recluse when the night is upon
him; solitary escapes in cheap bars after
budget grub, he seeks again: a few steps,
timely arrival, walk, a few steps, the finest
man enters. His bodily hairs exposed; his
aroma: stale—an additional
accessory, a truer 

description of a real fellow.

Conversation comes easily, the sharing
commences: fine adventures are recited,
dates are made, and the womanizing
inflates. The ego is bigger when the finer
booze lines, 

linger in his inners. After 

being expelled, it must be
replaced with—Let It

Be—let it be the stimulant that drives
through the olfactory structures. Passing
the nullified passageways, the man is
reborn, sparking his true charisma. The
woman he finds nurses him proper, leaving
him for the night, well, and functional—
allowing the withdrawals of isolation to be
junkied once more. Thank the lord, he
claims himself.

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