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Cecil II: The biological tree, Cena; the ubiquitous poverty and the monotonous mediocrity, status the discontent

It has been three days now for Cecil. Three days of waiting for something to come out from nothing. A miracle he's been hoping to breathe out from thin air. Cena left him for an hour now; probably due to the fact that therein lies no odorous communication between the two, no chemistry, in fact, to smother the awkward elephant inside the suffocating room. She left him for coffee, she says. I'll be gone not long, she says. We're still poor, she says. Well, no. But we are still poor. So fuck the coffee and fuck this lousy attempt at being civil. Cecil strives in despair, he lives for it. It's probably best for him to spit the keys to the confines of his introversion. Ha, intro-fucking-version. Since laughably when? Since puverty, hah hah. Get it? Puberty and poverty live together in perfect harmony.

So Cecil drowns himself at the irony of the thought, thinking if life was that easy for him to decipher, then why is he less intellectual than he intends to be? Is it part of the game the British wind plays? Is there some sort of sect ritual or virtual penance to endure in order to capture the placebo of understanding? That even when overcame with desire to be beneficial empowers even the finger that stuck between his anus. That lingering stink at the tip of his nostrils. That untouchable taste of dandruff flaking off his scratched scalp. Whatever.

There are plenty of desires now lost due to Cecil's incompetence, his inability to adapt to certain invaluable causes of survivability. Cena has had enough of it herself. Probably he and she both, attracted to opposite poles of agreement. His desire is to start was he's been meaning to start. Her desire is a worthy way to concede the battles. She's won and lost it all. But lost it more when she lost Cecil in an earth-shattering confrontation. The types of which are irreconcilable and blasphemous. The types of which that make God Himself weep.

If he could only poke into his anus without any severe ramifications, he would. Cena's been too supportive of that. Cecil has been too stubborn to think that life could feed him a box of chocolates now. England is his and it owes Cecil a living. But why? Simply because just because.

Cena's time is almost over, she's been too unhealthy for her own ungood. Cecil's never even bothered showing his appreciation for his dour predecessor, but deep inside him lies the only truth. Down there in the coffee shop Cena's life passes her by and a torrent of bittersweet nostalgia engulfed her thirsty soul. She is by no means perfect and it clearly shows. Her stubble fingers struggling to press a touch-screen smartphone, holding on to whatever path of short-term happiness leads.

As for the recluse, Cecil drowns himself not by memories but by a mass of tedious knowledge left and right. Not books but opinions, as he could care less for theories. This man, in search of a niche, desires not fact but a loophole. A hypocrite unlike any other. A pretentious Howard Roark in sheep's clothing, abundantly yielding the divine laws in search for metahedonism. A douchebag objectivist way ahead of his time. He comes and goes and stays and loiters for little to no return. A liability more than an asset, a cutpurse, even that and pussier, with a flesh so rotten no one would even bother sitting with in the tube. That's where he's headed, unless he could squeeze some sort of final revelation for his sickness to poor Cena in the end. He asks to himself, 'Where is she?' not because of concern but because, truth be told, his life is so irrelevant his presence barely even matters. In him there's that human loss of concept. A figment of one's delusion. The fool of fools.

But what better can Cecil do but to wait for absolutely nothing. His mind may conflict against worldly conformities but his heart burns for otherworldly creations. There is no better life than an intellectual recluse, because for him judgement is eternal. Emphasis on eternal, because it arouses him higher than any sensual seduction. Eternal, forever, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. He asks, 'Why am I so fucking poor?'

Somewhere inside the coffee shop, Cena's zeitgeist responds, 'I'm sorry.'

Well, apologise somewhere else, you piece of shit.

Cecil whines and loses control of his balance, twisting his neck as he plunges to the floor. The sound of medical siren bounces from the wall. Cena sips her coffee still, completely unawares.

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