will never attempt to finish again.

Down a gravel road, he walked.
The tall man with the fur trimmed coat.
You wouldn’t have Known, Guessed or seen, But this man had his own demons, His own Burdens They were Like skin for him, he was going to die with them The only way to rid himself, corruption, to no longer identify ones self, to be alienated from the rest of society, to be the ground of the doormats that the scum of society walks on.
He continued down the gravel road, continuing. The smoke from his fag rising, rising from his inky red chapped lipped pout mouth To his sallow deep brown eyes With bags that cascaded from his tear duct, discolored due to allergies from the pine trees that lined the road, smoke continued to rise to his tousled brown hair and settle in an aura around his head, the wind didn’t even want his second hand smoke either.
A boisterous bar approached him on the right hand side, the voices inside arguing about who would get in the next round. The tall man enters, said approaching bar, The vibrato of voices stopped to a mere murmur, a whisper, the quietest noise a man can make without being deceased. The tall man entered and discarded his cigarette, he was like an antique, a museum piece of grace and composure, scanning the crowd, and he spotted the very man, the one man to solve his problems.
The tall man with the fur trimmed coat strode towards the booth four paces away from the emergency exit and was seated across form a portly man with a moustache and scarred chin The tall man leans in close and speaks in a mellifluous thick Russian voice