A young dickensian in search of Arcadia. A land where there are no laws or boundaries and there is liberty everywhere. Cigarettes grow on trees and the benches are made of denim, the realm of the infinitive, your idea of heaven/perfection. Where the population is half dickensian half rude boy.
If you're looking for a cheap tart glint with perspiration, theres a four mile queue outside the dissused powerstation.
In my other occupation I am a crumb begging baghead, scraping together a meagre existence.
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