he wept. alone.
he wept for hilarious coincidences. he wept for hearts torn out, trampled upon, and set alight by forces of indifference. he wept for the lonely. he wept for those creatures like himself, tucked in their rooms high on solitude, feeling bereft, achingly longing for something more. someone more. he wept. he wept for dried and shrivelled daffodils. he wept for this charming man. he wept for the spongy lines. he wept for the dialogue, insufferably banal and boring as can be. he wept for them. he wept for the muddied, soaked, fractured, throbbing, rehearsed pulses of conversational sub-genres. he wept for himself. he wept for his narcissism, egomaniacal, puffed up and bloated on hubris. he wept for us all. he wept … … …

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'Illusory art' by Maya

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