There’s a man who used to, and still does, feel all of his feelings all of the time. He thinks too much, analyzes too long, sleeps too little, and goes unconscious at all the wrong intervals. He has more friends than enemies. He has no friends. He has escapes I envy but would never try. He admits the worst but hides the silliest of sins.
There’s a man out there who would sooner shoot himself than shoot his attacker. Hand over his masculinity to the first female competent enough to carry and keep it, then demand it back as if it had been stolen. He’s a most dangerous slayer on the fly, yet sits more often doing nothing, preventatively or preemptively. He wears black in the sun and bare skin in the winter. He raises his hand when he has nothing to say. Demands attention for simply existing. He’s a child in the eyes and a beast down below. Grows angry that he’s not all things at all times. Harbors fear when he certainly is, in fact, the end all - be all to someone or something.
There is a man on the loose who belongs to no one, though needs the obligation of duty and craves the imprisonment of a loving counterpart. He experiments with his best foot forward and in his mouth, simultaneously. His love is a hearty comfort food that needs constant reheating. He bleeds on contact, but feels nothing until on the brink of exsanguination.
He is on a shelf, on the mind and on the wing all at once. Down to earth, up in the air, both dead and alive with honors. He is ridiculous and magnificent. A sentence and a prize.