Some say that I’m discovering my masculinity in Du Queer, but this self-referential squandering of the senses is not the reason for my meandering ways. It is always some time of day or night – I carry the stars with me in a newsboy cap, and they come scattering down around my ears as I arrange my chapeau upon my head. It is twilight. My dreams are dark clouds spread out along the horizon, and I’m strolling nonchalantly towards them. I’m in no hurry for happiness; it is something I’m unfamiliar with and mistrust. My grey herringbone trousers have patches sewn onto each worn-out knee. As I kneel to shake an errant star from my shoe, I look up to see you standing gloomily. Why the bog-face, if there are clouds nearby?
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