Poor Prince Charming, glancing beneath lowered lashes as you seek out your newest paramour. You dance with a different partner each night, asking nothing, giving everything. If this dimly lit bar is a grand ball then we guests have each had a taste of your royal blood brought low and flavored by bourbon and cigarettes; yet inevitably the evening ends with the unspoken test failed, whatever hunger drives you to your knees barely appeased. And so you return the next night for another dance, another lover, another meaningless fuck. Will you ever find the one you’re searching for? Do you even want to?


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