Everyone agrees that he is a
lunatic; the living epitome of
losing one's mind. He would
crawl on the cold tiles
submissively, wild midnight hair
sprawled in all sorts of directions,
blank eyes bloodshot and
blinking every second, eyelids strewn in
crimson and kohl. His
tanned skin was caressed
by torn jeans and an
even tattered straitjacket, an
alias to his seemingly unstable
sanity. But they were his
props to express his feelings of
being trapped in a
kaleidoscopic confusion; he wants
to be free from the
overdosing amount of possession
he is strained with, but he is
simultaneously addicted to the
feeling of being severely loved,
everyday craving for
more affinity while struggling
to tear the malicious
hunger apart. He is addicted,
addicted, addicted. He wants
to stop but he'll suffocate
if he does. Like the living
Le Sacre Du Printemps he
is, he flung his straitjacket
around his torso once
again before he passionately
pirouettes a call
for a doctor.