In Demand

Dear Diary,

Maxy is wanted: in demand. The public house that was once my residency had outside of it a sign, scrawled in some left-handed scribble, the need for punters to enter the house of 'blooze'. When last I had to resort to such measures, t'was because of a lack of clientele. To confirm this, I happened to cross paths with another pair of loveable rogues, one of which told me he was in the pub last night, and a beauteous maiden approached him, a fit blonde, asking after me. She was hot for me, and the scoundrel explained that she was, in no uncertain terms "up for it". Fair Sue, where art thou? In mine hour of need. No matter. Boys will be boys, and women: ephemeral pleasures. N'owt but fun for the taking. It shouldn't be this way. Licentious lust for lascivious lads, but it is. I may even have to tidy the house up, in preparation for 'a good boning'. Aye. 'Tis the way of the world. Sadly. Lamenting the fruitless reflection of hindsight that strikes a terror to my feignting soul. No matter. Love: that elusive chimæra. N'er to be had excepting for a brief moment of joyeous rapture...

I just passed all manner of folks in the street. Dodgy people, Lords whom I know, a bunch of roleplayers, 'tis good. As the last dying rays of sunshine fade from the sunset, so I, return unto my sanctuary, in bitterswet hope, yet in truth, sombre cheer. For the dying day brings with it only sorrow, mingled with the hope of base wanton touch, to feel anothers arms about you. Aye. We shall cull thee out the fairest courtesans and bring them each morning to thy bed. Yet for now, 'tis only coffee and tobacco that brings release from the pain which hath taken up residence in my soul. That, and the promise of a new dawn. A banjo player. An artist - in the truest sense of the word - and more importantly a true friend, with whom none can compare. That, and love. Sweet miseries embrace, the inevitable downfall of a lonely man, destined for musical love: which hath been his steadfast companion...

Maximus Fleximus.