He tucked his shirt into old black trousers,
ran a comb through his hair,
looked into the mirror,
took a box of matches from the draw by his bed
and put them into his top pocket.
He had decided to live today in honour of James Dean
and as he slid his arms into his coat
he swore for a moment that he heard him whisper
that it was going to be fine.
The sky was the colour of sand.
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