"Quite Like The Old Times,

"Quite like the old times,

Without any worries or whatsoever

Just songs or nothing at all... "

Muse Sketches

Age 11: Foolhardy, naive, stubborn, passionate, little boi that will fight you, "the performer", has more hope in everthing that he bargains for, gets into bullshit more than anything else. Will perform his little heart out, a little unstable as well as the most annoying person you might/would ever encounter. Has no knowledge of any familial bonds or ties.

Age 15: "the con-artist" or "washed-up celebrity", has reached the peak of his talents and uses it to survive. Talents into surviving skills, sneaky, will talk his way out of any situation, uses words instead of fists, better to avoid than continue, has little hope, little passionate yet holding on towards the "bright future ahead". The intellectualist, angst for days. Suspected to have dissociative identity disorder, he shows signs but not entirely high-functioning. Part-time jobs galore. Little knowledge of a "certain" person of family.

Age 24-26: "The Detective in Training", literally just gave up after he reached the age of 18 and began saving up money so he could go to school. No-fucks given nor shit will be entered. Changed his name to Luke. Entered the police academy for the Little Town and was one of the youngest to graduate, stress had taken a hold of him and he poured it into alcohol and cigarettes, "Stress alcoholic", the one that brings vodka to an exam and still gets an A. Basically, a train wreck of a person riddled with sarcasm and saltiness. Trigger happy. The moment he heard the gun shoot, he fell inlove with weapons right at that time. "if it kills me then it kills me", kind of person. The most serious, always has a scowl, facts and deductions, only come out of his mouth. No trace of having talents nor being a perfomer. He knows about his disorder, as well having bouts of anxiety towards going down the lane of insanity just like "that" person.

                       ||   I pirouette in the dark.                             I see the  s t ar s through me.                             Tired mechanical heart                             beats ‘til the song d i s a p p e a r s.  ||

Simple things really. Killing oneself slowly, it gives time with a bitter promise.

by  greg pths