Poetry and song
There’s nothing as delicious as a familiar pain. Or a scathing pleasure.
It’s easy to say we want to change, to ‘be better’, to ‘make it’… Meanwhile bad habit, aka old friend, scratches at the entrance to your aspirations like your favourite pet wanting to be let in, hungry. Like the temptation of a bunch of minions disguised in finery and luxurious perfume, just for you. A delicacy for your consumption.
Play that sin until your heart gives in during the early hours of the morning. Too much butter? the waiter will ask casually, as you lay splayed against the leopard-skin rug in The Hall of Hesitation, clutching at the crude agony in your chest. No, you are not dying. Not today.
They will peer at you with their hands on their knees as they tell you to get up and greet the sun. It’s time to try again. It’s…
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