he's got afflictions of the liver because he's addicted to the liquor; sipping swigs of schnapps dipped in triple distilled vodka, knocking back shots and licking lips after kissing drops, snobbishly drinking drips of peach leakings which lead him to dream of
crisp movie screenings in high definition, motion pictures of preening while coasting to her location, smooth as a groove at the local disco with an ever-flowing gait, broad overture able to vacate a stronghold but also to hold and maintain her gaze, swooping through the loose and lewd crowd his mouth moves until tongue loses a sound: "how do you do? i know i might seem kind of proud right now but i promise my demeanor is never this pronounced. and honestly, i don't see a man in your glance so if he's not around then i thought i might have a chance to ask if you'd like to dance?"
flashback to a few seconds prior and you'll find he'd missed a passerby's high-five, face hit the side of a wall before the fall left it drenched in blood and as he got up he turned and asked if she'd like to fuck, to which she replied with an upchuck of chunks and thunderous laughter, ethanol and half-done supper splattering on the plaster next to background chatter, bluntly hazardous like the lack of a lead-lined hazmat suit in a radioactive factory.
juxtaposing fantastic fantasy with pragmatic reality was something he practiced avidly, so long as the vividly malevolent memories vivify and vilify his inelegant mind...
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