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he’s an aspiring polymath, an iconoclast of the misanthropic variety, a virtuoso with an unfulfilled quota of self-loathing. rain falls on the night-riddled pavement and two married dudes brazenly flirt with his youthful facade of hard-work and free-verse conversation, although the latter is as fabricated as the former is authentic. microcosmic invention; and big picture […]
via Postmodern Heresy — Paper Plane Pilots
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