Fake not likely accents draw a different kind of bent. These cells are full of grief, trauma and hope. Passed from ancestor to ancestor over decades and centuries.
He never amounted to much. Washing cars that are now few and essential for convincing period drama. Survival of war II failed to earn respect from his son.
The other was less able to cope with the stresses and strains of death. He shot himself, or so the story tells. The shame, can you imagine? Of course not. The lies that followed led this son to tramp in fictional footsteps. Things are different these days ain't they? Or are the stories we follow more liberal but no less accurate?
The space between fear and hope. Candid floss promise of sweetness meets the worst of primitive loathing lust. Drooling like a half cocked rabid pet.
Are we incarcerated by these cells, or are we somehow restricting their rehabilitation.
On the same side of the same worn monetary gem is hope. Smiling head of state, what state will this head be in tomorrow, later on today, in ten minutes?
Fall into reality, neither fear nor embrace the options.
If this makes any sense you're likely to be as fucked up and brilliant as I am. The best of luck to the beautifully broken.