Post by william hurst on Jul 17, 2015 10:28:59 GMT -5
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[attr="class","appn"]william hurst
[attr="class","appc"]age 29
[attr="class","appc"]group commoner
[attr="class","appc"]sex male
[attr="class","appc"]occupation doctor
[attr="class","appp"]
(on your good days) you think your messed up head is no accident, rather, it's the fault of old buried symptoms that no one cared about that made everything a COLLECTIVE MESS and something had cut too deEP (you bet) and it left you hELpless and unbearably sAD? coNfused? meloDRAMAtically mesmErising? don't cry over spilt blood. minced meat, flesh, dirt. don't cry. let me tell you a story.[break][break]
there was a field doctor with brittle bones that snapped twigs in the wind with twigs for fingers and a papermache heart and head. he sang myth like nursery rhymes to dying men and chocking children and lingered on snippets of unimportant recollections. (semi faded car registration plates on dark streets and pink street lamps. toilet paper.) all cuts from bigger pictures, he'd conveniently forgot about those. (the day his sister died, the day his brother killed himself.) they weren't real to him then, but perhaps they're real to him now. i mean, he still wails strange names in the dead of night. [break][break]
(on your bad days) everything is wrong and today's head is terrible. it lets the bad crowd in. (tiffany, audra, laura, weiss, dave and pete and patricia rowlands and her fucking fifty year old cat with the spanish flu) they're collectively throwing their weight across your head and mind and heart then they vandalise with pepper paint and they're puking everywhere in shapes mimicking a fountain show. quite pretty. now you want to be sick with them; sick across your chest and into the huge, red, pulsing, open, wound, in front of you.[break][break]
the field doctor was sick one night and then he was never the same ever ever ever again. when the orders to discharge him came through, he leant back and laughed and laughed and laughed until he winded himself. he lay on the floor for a while before crawling out the door and onto the cold hard streets.[break][break]
the field doctor used to have a family, used to have books, used to have a bath. but where did they all go? the field doctor asked, with cut fingers and bruised bones. but where are thEy?[break][break]
but no one answered the field doctor. for he could only crawl miserably until he could feel his legs enough to walk blind.
[attr="class","appi"]
(on your good days) you think your messed up head is no accident, rather, it's the fault of old buried symptoms that no one cared about that made everything a COLLECTIVE MESS and something had cut too deEP (you bet) and it left you hELpless and unbearably sAD? coNfused? meloDRAMAtically mesmErising? don't cry over spilt blood. minced meat, flesh, dirt. don't cry. let me tell you a story.[break][break]
there was a field doctor with brittle bones that snapped twigs in the wind with twigs for fingers and a papermache heart and head. he sang myth like nursery rhymes to dying men and chocking children and lingered on snippets of unimportant recollections. (semi faded car registration plates on dark streets and pink street lamps. toilet paper.) all cuts from bigger pictures, he'd conveniently forgot about those. (the day his sister died, the day his brother killed himself.) they weren't real to him then, but perhaps they're real to him now. i mean, he still wails strange names in the dead of night. [break][break]
(on your bad days) everything is wrong and today's head is terrible. it lets the bad crowd in. (tiffany, audra, laura, weiss, dave and pete and patricia rowlands and her fucking fifty year old cat with the spanish flu) they're collectively throwing their weight across your head and mind and heart then they vandalise with pepper paint and they're puking everywhere in shapes mimicking a fountain show. quite pretty. now you want to be sick with them; sick across your chest and into the huge, red, pulsing, open, wound, in front of you.[break][break]
the field doctor was sick one night and then he was never the same ever ever ever again. when the orders to discharge him came through, he leant back and laughed and laughed and laughed until he winded himself. he lay on the floor for a while before crawling out the door and onto the cold hard streets.[break][break]
the field doctor used to have a family, used to have books, used to have a bath. but where did they all go? the field doctor asked, with cut fingers and bruised bones. but where are thEy?[break][break]
but no one answered the field doctor. for he could only crawl miserably until he could feel his legs enough to walk blind.
[attr="class","appd"]
william is a doctor to the sick and the desperate. mental disorders still have to eat. the desperate and downtrodden need a plan z. [break][break]
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[attr="class","apph2"]
william is a doctor to the sick and the desperate. mental disorders still have to eat. the desperate and downtrodden need a plan z. [break][break]
n/a
[attr="class","appf"]
played by: boob [break]
face claim: [b]hetalia,[/b] [i]england[/i] - william hurst
[attr="class","apph2"]
played by: boob [break]
face claim: [b]hetalia,[/b] [i]england[/i] - william hurst
