Tragedy of wanderer

Tragedy of wanderer:

“Lying on his bed, he was nothing more than a rotten loath of flesh waiting to be dumped beneath the ground. His own smell unsettled him; it reminded him smell of those liquids in the glass he used to hold in the middle of crowds waiting for a glimpse of him, going gaga over his posters, even if being nothing more than an imposter. Lie, just a lie, a dirty stinky one, a coward, he remembers, he played for way to long, so long that it ruined him, ate him inside out, he felt so weak that he could not even dare to open his eyes to look around and find out if he was still being chased by them. Too weak to even respond to those naked girls dancing around, their bouncing breasts did not arouse him suddenly, for whom he used to go mad once. He felt embraced upon his all of sudden no better than dead penis hanging like a dried flower by the plant that once charmed and attracted bees all over. It was a dream run for him, way to good, one he never imagined, one he never wanted to get out of, but now when reality hit him like a speed breaker on a plain road so hard, it was too hard for him to hold on. He left himself to be drowning inside; a hope still held it somewhere, Hope! An ever-open Last option for a coward.