Gay Paris.

Suits, fine haircuts, dainty meals, beautiful woman, vexed brows.

Mechanic Barista efficiency.

I’m well disguised; long winter coat, new pants, leather boots.

Forget it though, they know it all came from a basket off the street.
It's clear, I haven’t showered in weeks.
No one's getting fooled.

‘Juste une café s’il vous-plait’

‘D’accord’

Ill be in the woods soon anyways,
pissing on trees, fucking in tents, screaming to the sky.

Dirty. High. Alive.

Dear George,

You bastard. All it was was the timing. But you sat on it and played dumb, treating me like an ass hole.

I spent hours under that 'lost cause.' You split your spin and swore. I listened to you whine about your woman. You treated me like a god damn son... a son you'll never have.

Didn't even ask for much money. Just enough to cover expenses... and some for your guilt.

When I banged on your door, you screamed and cursed and came out crutching, full of shame. You knew it was the timing all along, but couldn't bring yourself to let me go. You wanted to cash in but it killed you inside.

Now reluctant, laying with a cripple(a cripple yourself,) you curse about me. Despite everything, you'll be all right. Ill miss my mechanic though. Bye George.