An Unlikely Fragment of Infinity

The manchild lived in a dilapidated garage not so far from the coast. Seagulls drifted through the bleak grey sky above him. In his abundant free time he occupied himself with drawing sketches with a lassie he was infatuated with. She worked in a petrol station a few miles up the road.
He was too imperfect to render an accurate likeness of the Buddha as pictured on the Times travel supplement dated December 13th 2008.
The Buddha was an affluent little cunt. In time he became a real benevolent bastard. He didn't give a shit. No, it wasn't that. He was just chill as fuck. He'd do shit like meditate in front walls and shit. For years on end. Or so it's claimed. Who knows. Who the fuck cares?

The manchild sketched feverishly under a dim low energy lightbulb, conscientous of his grandmother's electricity bill. His grandmother popped in on occassion, to check up on him. She wasn't overly concerned; she could see he was safe here. He took good care of himself. He was a philanthropic soul. And spiritually affluent, one might say. Even if it was in a dim, inarticulate way. Maybe that's the best kinda way.

On the 16th of December 2008 he penned a review of the David Lynch film Inland Empire. In its entiritey, the review read:

"What the fucking hell was all that about?"

He submitted his review to various film magazines to no avail. The film had been out for a wee while. A reputable film mag would be unlikely to print a dated review. So that was the reason his review went unpublished, he decided.

An excursion to the petrol station was in order he decided one day when he was feeling particularly horny. He grasped his dick and gave it a few jerks for luck and then ventured out into the wind. He hobbled up the road, yelping and shrieking, drawing concerned stares from other pedestrians. He was gloriously oblivious. The wind rippled through his shaggy hair. He grinned and screamed, a tall fool of a man.
He kicked open the door of the petrol station, tweaking his tender nipples furiously. He then learned from the old man on duty that the lassie he liked had recently died from an electric shock.
"Fuck's sake...that'll be that then," he murmured morosely and then rushed outside and launched himself into the freezing cold ocean.
He was thankfully rescued by a perverted fisherman who unfortunately took it upon himself to fondle manchilkd mercilessly for as long as 45 minutes. This incident rendered manboy utterly perturbed and curiously aroused. He vented this arousal by bumming a heron, an act he was never brough tto justice for. To this day he is still at large and is thought to operate under the alias Charles Tex Watkins. And before you ask, no, he was never affiliated with the Manson family! OK, so maybe he was. So what? No-one's perfect.
I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to everyone who read this. Please accept my sincere condolonces.