Real stories, have no beginning, no end. Real stories are the ones we can listen to for hours and never get bored. When the fire goes out, everyone stands around the smoldering ashes, not wanting; needing more. You have the gravity in your chest, your the negative; the words the positive. Everyone yearns for those stories. The ones that aren't just about a boy becoming a man, the prodigal son, or the great journey; but the world they take part in. Where you would rather live the life of a bi-stander, than to do whatever it is your told you have to do. You'd rather drink the shittiest ale in a tavern; that wreaks of the homeless and the lowly. Hearing the squabble of the same damn married couple that's there every night. Fighting so diligently about nothing. You can see he abuses her. The marks on her cheek, but by the size of the woman she certainly could stop him, if she so desired. A dimly lit run down hole in ground, where the door screeched like a banshee when it was opened, and every drunk's glazed, clumsy eyes peered at you like you where late to Sunday mass. The regulars never flinched, striding to the average looking bartender. The one who's laugh gets more infectious through the night, and when the the light hits their eyes just right; has you smitten after a pint of the house rum. This customer however was much different.
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