he's standing right behind you, with a balloon and a gun. there's magic in his eyes and ennui on his lips. he wants you to know he cares very little. it's just an orchestra in his brain. he's almost positive you're the crescendo. how long can he keep this going? how long can he keep you in theoretical suspense? he possibly feels the same way you do but enjoys it. his songs are innumerable. his acts are finite. it ends when you do. or when you end him.
stop pawing at it and man up. rip the throat and enter. there will be a day to remember.
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