I like creaky bridges on the brink of breaking.

I like old parchment, ink riddled pages, reeking, aching;

I love that which does not wither and that which is not touched by frost

I like broken mirrors, the shards of which the glass-worker admires, I love things long lost

I love the haunting creases of a smile on the face of the sullen, recently widowed librarian and the redness in her eyes

And the myriad other things under the surface of the world we live in; the dark of the night, the ravens’ cries

And cheesy shit like listening to a jukebox in a musty bar fervently smelling of booze, piss and remorse

I love weird people, like my gay black best friend who thinks I’m hot because I have a beard like that Jedi from Star Wars

You have to see that there’s much to love and much to see, and there’s only so much that one can be

So why be a hateful person when you can be a loving one? Why be someone else when I can be me?

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