These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. " "Don't stir, or they'll chain you to the wall," said his mother detaining him. His physical body was predictably paralyzed with shyness and fear of rejection, barely soothed with a series 51 of blatantly direct requests and compliments. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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