On an endless night, the apple of his eye was keeping her anger bottled up inside. Belling like a cat, he battened down the hatches as his better half threw blankets of indifference his way. Boiling mad, his cabin fever had hit panic stations when his noisy neighbours destroyed his peace of mind by taking him beyond the point of no return. Pleading for a path to exile, and shaking the dust from his feet, he informed his neighbours that they were on a slippery slope with his storm of words.

Edging the melting pot, they acknowledged that life was indeed a struggle and instead of jumping the shark, they gave a wide berth, with eyes like saucers believing that for Art, hope washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life, that a conscience is a man’s compass, so Art had better batten down the hatches and roll down the shades, as the light of his life remains upon a sea of uncertainty.

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