Get.

The Writer had tried to be distanced and cool; flippant and detached was ala mode, yet a heaving earnesty longed to break heroically free in long, drawn out, breathy sentences, that flourished and flounced with the most flowery of language. Cripple with fear. Cripple with gin. Cripple with harsh, alcoholic, medicinal swill and break your goddamned legs walking away so you'll never do it again. Don't look forward so far, your eyes will bleed, the sharp sting of what is not cuts like failure. Howls and bowls and twigs and bags stuffed with stones and leaves weigh him down, but only to the outsider of it all, inside there's freedom and it isn't prescribed and everyone else is terrified of it, so much so its frowned upon. So get new again! Take off all your clothes like you're just born! This second! This day! Rejoice that punk is a hollow shell and that the Empire has fallen centuries ago, time kills all, but we have now, oh god do we have now!