Candelabra on a red bench
 
Burning a hole in my pocket without being financially dependent, he's extra doomed.  He will work extremely hard and be rewarded for his hard work with the blanket goddess of relief, but oh not yet.  He still has miles to travel and he is excited to travel these miles and embrace the SUCK that awaits.  He was a golden lad who sought to taint his own glow as a method to prove himself.  After falling through his own cracks, he grew back out of them some exotic vibrant flower.  He was in tune with the moment that presented itself to him.  He gazed presently at the bell tower blazing its ringing copper.   He was Vantablack.

Boy didn't write enough.

Goth precinct with the eyes closed mode of thoughts emulated and distributed.  The gentle giants of baboon proportions pick and choose they're hesitant behaviors like timber popes.  Vengeance is mutual in the different realms of funeral basements, cusping corners in wrong precinct.  He stares off not looking forward and maybe backward or somewhere ordinary.  It catches up to him and he cries.  He wants to cry.  Where has time gone? Where has chance and hope and love and freedom.  The tired desperate grin grows.  Broken tears urge themselves capitalizing in the savory days.  Joy and guilt beckon the computer screen in an aromatized illusion of dilution.  The chimes ring passively without rough stretches or safe colorways to pronounce what is and isn't over.  He wonders if his fingers are dancing too slow and if he is truly a free soul.  Bound to be a great one, he still struggles regularly on his journey to ascension.  He just hopes to delight in a task that will be awarded to him.  There are so many new new things to sweep over an abandoned conscious in a lost land of serpentine desires.  The free borders of church and oceanic gulfs present the wandering elevating murmurs of new exploration.  I even picked the same shades of green in illustrator today... hmmm the potato farmer persists...