In a dirty bar, with the dark dark oak, on a dusty shelf, in a dusty nook, behind a bottle of scotch lies his heart’s desire, thinly cloaked in fumes, thinly veiled by lies, with a heavy lock and a heavy look, under wrinkled lids that once fluttered and shook.
It’s an ancient world and an ancient drive, with beaten veins and a losing fight, a tin soldier’s hat and a dancer’s lust, smelted down to one, to one beating heart.
As desire dims to an urban cry, to drunken applause Fear of Dying dies. 

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