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Often times it comes to a point in a mans life when the World begins to drag behind him as he heaves forward towards the reaches of space. The outward reaches of time we drastically changing and yet all he can do is continue. Sophisticated or not. The path is always the same for the man with little to no time to continue. However he has little to no time to compare. The radical that emerges within a man for a rite of rights is never left to chance when he senses his time nearing an end. Orlando has never been one to question the hands on a clock. He always left to chance the fundamental excitement of exchanging his words for a book. The books that filled the world were never addressed as anything other than informal wits and half eaten plates of pasta. Orlando being a man of age had never ridden a bike faster than he could peddle but had certainly left his mark on the library. Organised or not his hands were never good for anything more than turning a page in disgust of the last man who had crinckled the pages before he had touched them. Orlando needed a change in pace. Orlando needed a change in location. Before he had realized he was tall enough to be 6'3 he had committed acts of distrust upon the locals of his town. Sold out and cheated, gambled and lied, arranged his mind to spit before calling it fair. "The sooner I leave the better ill feel" he assumed aloud before reaching for a knife in his pants. Orlando rushed the bank with knife in hand telling the teller "get on the fuckin ground puta". From the glass reflected glow on the ground of the pavement screams could be heard from the elderly man who was the only patron and a clear sign of disbelief on the face of the young bank teller who had only started the day before. She had blond hair, blue eyes and darker than pink lips. Orlando had reached the point of his life where he realized its all about building upon the teachings he was given as a child.
