I Haven't Always Been A Writer And

Show Me What A Man Hates And I'll Show You What He Is.

Because Every One Of Us Has Our Box, A Dark Chamber Stowing The Thing That Lanced Our Heart. It Contains What You Do Everything For, Strive For, Wound Everything Around You.

Well, Life Isn't A Cakewalk, Is It?! Eighty-nine Percent Of The World's Most Valuable Art Was Created By Men Living In Rat-infested Flats. You Think Velásquez Wore Adidas? You Think He Enjoyed The Luxuries Of Central Heating And Twenty-four-hour Pizza Delivery?!

Life Had Been A Suit I'd Only Put On For Special Occasions. Most Of The Time I Kept It In The Back Of My Closet, Forgetting It Was There. We Were Meant To Die When It Was Barely Stitched Anymore, When The Elbows And Knees Were Stained With Grass And Mud, Shoulder Pads Uneven From People Hugging You All The Time, Downpours And Blistering Sun, The Fabric Faded, Buttons Gone.

But When You Flee Someone, No Matter How Far You Roam, That Person Will Follow You As Doggedly As The Stars.