He enters stage left, approaching the mic stand on a sticky floor. He clears his throat, and begins to speak into the microphone... eyes fixed on page. It's a poets den... a dive of ill repute, loosies and watered down drinks:
"To see so many and think of one. To touch so few but in profound ways. To examine and live a life of honor and duty for the sake of those you've never met. It all requires a kind of "thing" you dig? A sincere notion that a man should never raise his hand against his lover or ever use the word "bitch" to describe her. That he should never cum before she does... and that he should tell her that he loves her at least once a day. That if there should be need of memories... they'd serve to tell a mostly fond tale of a man that may not have been perfect... but loved well. And that all this should not be done just to "have" her but that it should be based on who he is as a man... in his soul. In short... that he should be sincerely different from everyone he's ever encountered... or anyone... she's ever known. Not to be "unique" for the sake of it... but because his innermost secret heart should lead him so...
Because sometimes... the hamster don't wheel baby..."
At the backdrop of snappin fingers, he folds up his one sheet and slips it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket... cool struttin away from the mic stand. He exits stage right. It's a poets den... a dive of ill repute, loosies and watered down drinks. It ain't exactly "him" but like most places... it somehow feels like "home"...
~moses apollo
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