The wretched walk with a stench. The infected deflected by relatives and friends. Your demeanor, a fiend that offends the myths of their thoughts—the thoughts of those without financial worries.
Your empty wallet yells, “Please, lend me some money.”
Your mind debates, “Should I ask for some money to get by this month? I really need help. I’ve tried so hard.” You swallow your pride and decide to ask—such a tedious task. You find yourself already among the many tongues from those who helped with contempt–those who you still owe your soul to.
You smell your own stench. Not even a shower and cologne can hide it.
Oh, the myths of their thoughts expel disgusting odors. You play the many scenarios, the stinking ideas:
“You’re lazy.” “You’re not trying hard enough.” “You’re an opportunist.” “Everyone uses me,” they say.
You stroll into the ballroom in rags. Everyone pauses. Their stern countenances stare back at you. A woman screeches. A man yells. People trip everywhere before you can utter a word. The chandelier falls the shiny beige floor, missing a woman by an inch. A man drags her out of the way.
They all flee.
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