Analysis Of The Story ' The Great Gatsby ' By F. Scott Fitzgerald

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and so the story goes: if one were to wander into the little tea-shop on the very edge of seventh avenue, they 'd immediately see a lone boy sitting there, a boy who somehow looks like there 's a puzzle piece missing from him, a boy who somehow has drooping eyes and hooded smiles like lunar eclipses. it could be his bruised-violet knuckles or his mussed hair or both, really, but he seems to be the very pinnacle of melancholy, porcelain-white and fragile with tidal waves etched into his skin and bones and veins and soul. there 's smudges of cobalt and cadmium yellow cracking underneath his crooked eyelashes, stained glass shattering within itself in disintegrating swirls of colour, and his posture is quieted as though a single blink will…show more content…
why is it so hard? bitterly, he sighs, picking up his teacup with red, sprained fingertips and wincing at the taste of watered-down peppermint like stardust novocaine rusting away at his teeth. he always asks for five spoonfuls of sugar as though it 'll soothe the ever-present lump at the back of his throat, chip away at the cloying sweetness that 's coiled around his arteries and is corroding his lungs with every breath he takes; but it doesn 't work, it never works. he misses the taste of his mid-life wasted youth when nothing really mattered, when he would have volleyball to focus on instead of the business textbooks he 's been forced to dedicate his entire life to, and hinata to keep him company. hell, he 'd do anything to get it all back, would trade heavy-hearted essays and lachrymose smiles for hinata 's familiarity any day. but now he 's just stuck on repeat, all synthetic smiles and plastic euphoria as he pretends the ink from his pen is spilling onto the page as minutes, hours, /days/ tick on, a black-and-white movie playing again and again and again on a record player that 's just a little bit more than broken. he 's angry as he drinks and nothing comes out of it still, hot as he puts pen to paper and nothing comes out of it still, and after what feels like hours but is only probably minutes, he puts everything down defeatedly and stares out of the window. the winter skies have surrendered to a storm rather than snow now, it looks like, all periwinkle
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