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Negative 82

An empty husk of a man, reduced to drinking the night away, a product of a figment of an imagination.

“So many of us struggle with the drink,” a writer told me once, so I started drinking.

I still struggle with the way it tastes, like a wet, lukewarm dick forcing its way into your throat, no matter how cold it might be. Not that I would know what that’s like, or how a dick can be lukewarm.

Why does everything always
either fade in or fade out?
What the fuck happened
to music?

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