Tropic of cancer

"How can one get lousy in a beautiful place like this?"

Bone white. Indigo. Font of the Saints pressed along a beltline of red lacquer.

Didn't come to mean much in the end. A squire of poor altitude adjustment arrived in this color of trunks to summon no great threat against a young doll of a fighter in mathematical scabby attire. I'm speaking of course of Edwin De Los Santos coming to take on Shakur Steveson. Except their fight, warding the appeal of a pile of burning tires, never got off the ground. Neither did either fighter passenger first class. Business? I guess. This was more economy, dumped in back near the toilet. Its venture was kept waiting and waiting and waiting and then! You guessed it, more waiting. Waiting which takes out its pen and notepad and scribbles all the way out to the margins and ends up marking up its own palm and then, just because it waited so long, with frenzy, to unlearn how to graph its own outline, ends up scribbling itself sore with the mad markings of loose freehand renderings of unwanted waiting away from its waiting.

Okay. Whew.

I burn this brand on the young man, Shakur Stevenson, the champion at fault, may he not resemble a trembling under which stars he fights below. Here and there thusly or wherever he should make his quiet jacket fighting style known. And may his doll like appearance find joy in wandering thereafter happily. I certainly won't be scouting the wood for such bore-ish company

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