Sometimes, Kavinsky thinks about maybe he should fuck less totally weird, jacked up people. But then he remembers that he does do that. Like all the fucking time. And it's boring. Life in general is boring, because he's a mentally ill child who just wants to die, crawing in my skin, these wounds.

Which is how he ends up in situations like these. Marooned in a luxury penthouse apartment amid a multi-city blackout, probably a terrorist threat, having everything he could possibly want except for human companionship. And in lieu of 'human' companionship, he's watching a grizzled old man chow down on a dream heart while snapping at him that he doesn't owe him shit. The one good thing that's come from being forced to stay alive since Henrietta, is that he learned to suck it up when perceived debts aren't paid. After all, his usual Plan B isn't a permanent fix here.

Kavinsky folds his tattooed hands over his tummy and listens to the pop and squelch of bloody meat. Unsurprisingly, he's pretty sure he could still get hard if he wanted to.

Moral growth and spiritual learning.

"All you gotta do is sit there and think of England. I'm a cheap date."