The kind of place that makes a morgue look like Bacchanalia is where I currently try to slash away at boredom with a pair of thick metaphorical scissors, shredding into ribbons the languid ennui of joylessness that dulls my wits, blunts my smarts.
If there ever were cheers in this house then only a skilled archeologist with enchanted tongs could unearth the dissected remains of long buried mirth.
Where joys are taboo and happiness a path to corruption, I walk the side roads waiting to jaywalk to the other side of life.
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