If you back yourself, I’ll back you, stand next to the yet to resurrect version of you which makes for super good television. Because my words aren’t criticism, they’re nigh on gospel, and if you savour each syllable, let my sentences set like hand print cement or jello or Botox you’ll find higher levels and I don’t mean Mario, although I don’t sleep much either.
If I tell you your fatness is cured, I’ve cured it, because I never told a lie in my life, but when I did, I found it unswallowable, and time is a series of do and not do, of back-track mistakes and dreaming you look like a Clooney, fuck like a Pitt.
And if you believe me, that in three months you’re standing, my side to your doubled up belt, then I’ve a religion started, I’m head of a brand new estate.
