Independence Day

If you're ever truly lucky in this world, in life really, you'll get to be told the truth. That your manhood's a hoax. A near-sighted hoax, like she did to him. In Paris, the city of love.

Caressing his pride with truth, like an STD wearing a white gown. Because manhood is a sword, stuck in the nearest rock of independence. It's the same rock King Author's sword was put in, put there by freedom and female proclivities. And rumor has it, even more if your lucky, at the age of 18 you'll pull the sword out this of stone and transform into a beautiful specimen women like to call an "Independent male". The color of whatever attracts them. The mind of whatever attracts them. And the owner of whatever attracts them. Because the self of men is habit to befit what a woman's lustful eye says. Laid to rest in the cadence of her sight. Blessed by the time and opportunity to be accepted by her, right?

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