The exception that proves the rule. A blog of short writings from Australia and England.
Sunday, 1 November 2015
In his head, he sits. Alone in the studio. No matter who or how many people he is with, the image always fits. Him sat there brooding over all the love and hate he has to give. The two sometimes mixed. But every cunt is too fucking self-absorbed and oblivious to truly feel it. And so the gun in his mouth remains permanently fixed.