I want to tell you about childhood impressed by dinosaurs, and teenage years with fists shoves deep in complicated pants.
I want to hold this like the first black clove cigarette I ever smoked, hinged between my fingers as I feigned indifference.
I am convinced it has to go down like a well played chess game, thinking four moves ahead of every metaphor and confession.
As I find myself intrigued without sinister motive.
A sucker for a good story.
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