From what well does rashness spring? Who would be fool enough to draw up its malnourishing bucket? To taste its bile flavor? Lacking in grace is the great leap.
The rash man’s adolescence is a blur. It is all impulse and dissatisfaction. The rash youth throw, in a red hot moment, fiery dice at the dousing waters of probability. And they always lose.
Breath comes quick for the rash man, his heart pounds in his chest, and he grabs at superheated gold. His fingers meld, molting sense against the melting metal. The smell of charred skin wafts across his stuffed nose. The glint of yellow blinds his fixed baggy eyes, whose lids quiver with strain. Browning teeth crunch against one another, grinding enamel and bone. The streaking sound is audible throughout the scene.
The rash man dies without dignity. The failed past plagues him on his deathbed, and he wails with impetuosity, like a child. The memorable past perches on his shoulder, more vivid than ever in that last lightless hour. With a magnum to his brain, he threatens his tormentors. As he feels his organs fail, he pulls the trigger. And it is always the bullet that kills him.
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