He works in retail but he doesn’t buy clothes. He spends money on more important things like books, and coffee, and his fucking vinyl collection.

He reads the newspaper but hates the times. He’s more concerned with how the world perceives him instead of the other way around.

He goes to class but he doesn’t learn. So stuck inside of that dogmatic head he soaks in only that which he comes up with himself.

He reads and writes but he doesn’t say anything. His words just like the ones he spoke yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

He says he’s put together but he doesn’t have a clue. The mystery of life is that its not a mystery at all, but he plays it out like fucking Sherlock Holmes.

—m.h.

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