Twas the eye of the apocalyptic storm, slowly disintegrating every vestige of sanity from him.
The storm would continue, but here, in a cloud of narcotic smoke the eye gave reprieve. Here altruism met megalomania. Here Mister Kite deafened the inner voice, and helter skelter the turbulent, tepid waters of the mind evaporated, leaving only empty oblivion in their absence. The line began to blur between reality and fiction, every evening was a collection of quantum moments, disconnected from one another by a void in inebriated memory, and every planet they reached was dead.

Every HIT, every SHOT, every BANG, was just a flimsy shelter against that cataclysmic storm, that internal meltdown.
And he knew it, but the disposable shelters kept being used up and thrown away, especially if they were made of another’s flesh.

The storm cared little, it ravaged inside of him, and it raged with such an intensity that it ruined those that came too close.


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