im sat at my writing desk, the home to the fortune I’ve made myself over the years, the trophy wife asleep down the hallway, several kids snuggled under the D&G blankets in their separate bedrooms scattered across our four storey townhouse. Life has been good, I have everything I need and approval from the world at large.
And he returns, scratching his fingers down the all, coughing gruffly, one too many firebombs last nights, chuckling to himself...
Here we are again just you and I, the rain pisses down like streams of unrequited nonsense, reminding me that however shite my life has become the world will promise to show me some more, the house is empty the wife and kids long gone....streetart is dead, it is dead, but I’m not and now I’m just less interesting,
