And when people ask "why him", all I can say is "why not?".
It's actually pretty simple. He's an outsider.
You look at all them rich boys with their perfect whitened teeth, and their v neck sweaters and polo shirts and you manage to guess they will never put a finger up to accomplish anything, there's always someone behind their every move.
And you look at him, he's a catastrophe he's a mixture of drugs, alcohol cigarettes and midnight hookers, with nothing to prove, with no one to take responsibility for his mistakes, with no pre planned future.

And so in a heartbeat, his worn off knuckles and dark eyes, his scars,
simply become, *home.

Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.