I gaze out upon the street. It is lined with brutalist, communist architecture: vast and uncompromising, like my penis.
I have been many things, soldier, beggar-man, thief. Until Poland, neither lover nor felon. Tonight I did two things of worth; I fled a bill of perhaps five pounds, and I devoted myself entirely to the ideal of love. We met the best of all possible vaginas: warm, silken, resplendent in their own glory. No man could resist and yet call himself Man. Before today, love has been a fleeting thing: a leaf on the wind, ice cream on the tongue of a child, delicious yet melting away to nothing. Before today, I knew nothing of hotpants. We make our plans, pray to our gods, and hotpants make fools of us all. I am among the best of men, and yet I know nothing but the tortured fultility of a man who may look but cannot touch. He who looks upon the face of God, or who has gone to strip club.
Beer is a constant in our new life. Who we once were has been burned away, the memories fade like dust, dust in wind. All the now remains in the indeniable fact that 9% beer is 75 pence. Nothing is at it once was. Edde bought a Gladius and swore himself to the ancient codes of combat. Matt decided to shave his beer. I don’t even know what.
It is the end of all things.