In the city, the police sirens screamed, as the poets, and the musicians, and the writers and the artists they dreamed, and lay amongst the empty bottles of alcohol, after the nights talk of rock n roll, and after a night talking of books that lift your soul, and after talking of music that made them want to dance, and take a chance, with a beautiful stranger that they had never met before. It was three fifteen A.M in Greenwich, in the city of London, and everybody was drunker, drunker than they had ever been beforeā€¦

 And In the flat amongst the debris, there was Peter Simpson, asleep on the sofa. He was a musician in his twenties, who had long brown hair, and brown eyes, who was tall and who had an incredible ineptitude for paying his bills. He mumbled to himself, whilst occasionally, waving his arms about, probably fighting off imaginary debt collectors. And then, there was Aaron, Aaron was asleep in the armchair,he looked peaceful and serene. Nothing ever bothered him. Nothing bothered him at all. He was cool, cool, cool, one of the coolest people that had ever walked the Earth. And nothing ever fazed him whatsoever. He was the kind of man, who was so laid back, he would lay down during a nuclear missile attack and enjoy the beauty of the sky.

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