You must pray for the fickle and weak. As we all need to make it through the heat. Your whiskey neat burns down the branches of your chest as you speak. Expand into a balloon, the crowd won’t bow but shake their heads. They can not believe this tale you live, the life in a comfy castle cove. The girls back home cry, denying all this fallacy. Really it can not be like this, this isn’t reality. This can not be like you or me. We aren’t merely copies, are we? They cry tears in the shape of rapids that carve rivers down your cheeks. To take her to the moon will settle, remedy this pain. So give me a few years and I’ll get you there. For now pray for the fickle and weak as they aren’t lost, but free.