When I first met him [John], I talked to people in my life, and they say, âWhat do you like to do. What are your hobbies and stuff?â
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When I first met him [John], I talked to people in my life, and they say, âWhat do you like to do. What are your hobbies and stuff?â

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dreamcrboy.
       The proximity between the two men had become minimal when Paul moved, and John knew that whatever wall it was that he was fronting, it wouldnât last much longer. He could try and sit stone-faced and quiet, with his only responses being harsh and sharp, but there would come a moment when he looked at Paul, at thatâd be itâheâd see past the bullshite and John wouldnât be able to produce it any longer. Beyond the sentiments he was comfortable allowing out of his mouth to form was his feelings regarding the younger musician. He didnât even see him that way, younger. John saw Paul the same way they were positioned in the chairs: eye-to-eye, one mate next to the other. But God, did he have such a disdain for the words that had pooled out of his mouth.
       â I never said I wouldnât do it, Paul. â John moved his cigarette stain digits to the ash-tray, stamping out the ciggie he no longer had any desire for. The remaining smoke in his mouth was blown out the side of his twin-flesh, and his chocolate orbs followed the trail it made down to his lap. As he listened to Paul, John watched his leg bounce, up and down, reflecting the bundle of nerves that danced inside of him. Talk to me. He hated that he kept saying that, like a broken record. John glanced upwards, lips thinned, and leaned his head towards Paul. He lowered his voice and said, his tone incredulous, â I donât know what it is ya want me ta say, Paul. âm so bleedinâ tired of this shite, Iâd almost wish the bubble would burst, as it were. âÂ
     â NEXT TIME, then. Any time at all, as it happens, â Paul let out with a cute chuckle, so very like him to make when he says things that impress him. Paul often actually enjoyed thinking about their youth. What the early years of fame were like when it was all fun and exciting breaking through that last wall of performing in terrible conditions just to get their names and music out there . . . for a while. . . everything was good. But now . . . well, Paul might dare think of it as a death sentence.Â
       Paul moved his hand and rested it on top of the otherâs knee briefly to draw his attention. â Innit this everything we worked so hard for? Almost makes ya sick, thâirony of it all. â
@dreamcrboy
          â JOHN. Take a step back . . . please. Iâm right here, now, â  Paulâs pupils dilate appropriately given the situation, however, heâs adopted a nice sensation that, in turn, alerts the rest of his body and mind to another state of realization in tune with the energies of the world around him. Itâs something he finds that he needs to embrace, to learn to appreciate as it clears the years of fog from his perception on the universe. Paul is here out of concern for his best friend. John means everything to him, and to see him on the brink of himself . . . well, it just ran Paul right out of any alternatives besides joining him on this trip. Theyâd discussed it, albeit passively and with much resistance from Paulâs end . . . but this is what it took . . . for Paul to join John on the trip of a lifetime.Â
iâm tripping out on this fucking blue slug, guys

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dreamcrboy.
          John swallowed Paulâs comments and they went down like a thousand tiny, glass shards. Perhaps the younger hadnât intended for the words to feel so calloused and bitter; perhaps it was with good intentionsâlike a parentâthat Paul spoke to John like that, but with an already upset stomach and a raging headache, John merely felt betrayed by words that confirmed all he already thought.
          â Swallow me fugginâ pride? â John glared at Paul, waves of anger radiating off his words. This was his mate, the boy whoâd always agreed willing, disagreeing. He might as well have joined the rioters, John thought bitterly, sucking at the nicotine that burned away in his hand. â Fuck off witâ it, Paul, really. Thatâs cheap stuffâyou tellinâ me that âm a shite. Get off yeâr high horse, wonât you? Save that fer Brian, ând stick tâyer fugginâ lousy, polished charm. â He blew a line of smoke, anger seeping in his veins. He shook his head. John didnât know what was tumbling out of his mouth anymore than he knew what was happening around him. Anger talk and feared opened his mouth. â Fuck, Paul. If only. â
           DISAPPOINTMENT DEFINITELY  occupied his lips now, sat on his troubled brow as any remaining essence of comraderie faded away like fresh air vacating to an unsettling odor. He knew how to deal with John when he got like this, heâd had enough experience by now. It was all deflection. A facade to mask the very real insecurities that lay beneath such a hardened, angry exterior. Paul can see through it as he always has, and itâs a calming breath he has to take through his nostrils as he ashes the butt of a dying ciggie and moves towards the other, closing the cold, intimidating distance between them. Paul had learned when they were just two dumb kids growing up in Liverpool, trying to start a band . . . help distribute to the people the songs they were singing . . . that John Lennon was, as much as he may seek to deny such things from the pubic, a sensitive soul. Paul can remember many nights they sat up, just . . . TALKING. Crying. About their mothers, they bonded quite a bit . . . broke down a wall. Theirs was a bond that wouldnât ever be severed, not completely.
        â If only yâcould burn off eânuff tâsee it from their perspective? â  He tried to assist with a subtle twitch of his brow. Helping John to see reason was tough, but somehow Paul got through to him just about every time. Eventually. He was his buffer, his spiritual translator, even when he was right . . . which, in this case, Paul was at best on the fence about. â Look, youâre not thâonly one those bastards nailed to a post, yâknow. Did yâmiss thâsub header on DATEBOOK? Theyâve been round thâdirt with my name, too. Yâjust canât give âem what they want, yâknow . . . ? Allâs Brianâs trynaâ say is that sometimes yâjust keep your shite tâyerself, anâ when yâdonât, thereâs bloody consequences  -- Talk tâme instead. â
dreamcrboy.
   â Cheeky, la, fugginâ cheeky. â John grins. â Come off it, then, James. â
      â AFTER YOU, Johnny boy. â
dreamcrboy:
       â Yeâr better for it, Sonny Jim. Thereâs no room in a rockânâroll group fer a James. Sounds old. âÂ
    â YES, SIR,   Mr. Churchill sir. â
dreamcrboy:
        John was fractious. He licked his lips and stared at the telly playing on low in the corner as he thought about Paulâs question. All of his answers had been filtering through at a slower pace than usual, taking not just moments, but minutes, to be released into the tense air that surrounded the Beatles today. Johnâs eyes caught Paulâs again and he shrugged.Â
        â Thought thaâ about Maureen too, didnât I Paul? âm so fugginâ sick of this all, yanno. â He couldnât even laugh in disbelief, he was so bothered. Instead, he sighed heavily and he fished for a cigarette. â It was jusâ a comment, Paul. I shouldnât âave tâapologize. â
          PAUL JUST STARED. It was easier to take John in all at once instead of trying to piece things together through half assembled interjections that never really made land with the Beatle anyways. Once he had finished his piece, Paul drew on his cigarette, paused, released the smoke through his nostrils as the remnants escape from his lips that somehow seemed disappointed.Â
     â Anâ that doesnât matter, does it? âCause yâpissed off thâwrong people John. I know yâwant to pull thâ âIâm an Americanâ Card and yap about all this freedom of speech shite while yâhide behind yâr bloody PRIDE -- but I know you, John . . . Youâre a fucking shite, yâknow. â But those words leave not in a manner cold like SPITE, but rather warm like a brandy lingering on the tongue, for his intentions are not to HURT him, but to help him.

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dreamcrboy:
     â Yeah, Winston, after Churchill, because me mum likes himâŚAnd whyâd they name ya James then, if they were jusâ gonna call ya Paul anyhow? Fugginâ silly, that. Ya look more like a Paul, yanno. â
        â SâPOSE it was me own choice, after all . . . Me mum, she always liked James, yâknow, after me dad, but . . . sâpose shâthought so, too, âcause it just kinda stuck, yâknow. â
@dreamcrboy // continued from hereÂ
        PAULâS EYES SHIFTED,  he didnât like seeing John like this. Never. Not once. Be it before flashing cameras or in the privacy of their own little hotel room, Paul knew when John was not in his right. And right now, he felt the energy coursing through John Lennonâs being that made it feel as if any moment he may burst at the seams and collapse into a heap. Paul would be there, however, if that were the case to happen. He would always be there.Â
     â No, this isnât talkinâ tâthe press nâ thâfans . . . this is talkinâ tâME, John. Thereâs a difference. Isnât there? âÂ
@dreamcrboyâ - quarry men haps in the early days B)
       â YOUR MIDDLE NAMEâS Winston, then, eh? Like . . . Churchill, Winston, like, yeah? -- I think itâs pretty cool, yâknow, mineâs me bloody first name, yâknow, and James is mâfirst, actually . . . â
hasflown:
â  As  if  Iâve  never  heard  that  before,  â  she  responds  with  a  roll  of  her  blue  eyes.  Heâs  not  the  first  to  use  those  words.  Nor  will  he  be  the  last.  Her  gaze  drops  to  the  glass  in  her  hand,  a  drink  he  has  so  graciously  brought  for  her.  A  ghost  of  a  smile  curls  on  her  pink  lips  as  she  thinks  of  a  response.  â  Iâm  not  as  gullible  as  those  other  girls,  y'know  that,  right ?  â
       â GULLIBLE?  YOU? Never, sweetheart. â My, isnât he just a wizard with words? Itâs almost as if he can twist his tongue any way he may wish in order to get his way, and do so successfully. Let it be said that PAUL MCCARTNEY knows all the tricks, turns, and cheats into finding his way into a womanâs knickers heart. Their shared proximity remains close, intimate. He wants nothing more than to feel the thrill he gets every time his lips touch those of another, and that all too familiar, reassuring rush of energy to his ego flushes his skin with warmth throughout his snugly fit suit.  â Iâm sure yâve heard it before. Iâd be baffled if yâhadnât, yâknow . . . beautiful woman like yourself . . . â  these words, he accompanies with a soft brushing of the girlâs hair out of her face and behind her ear.Â

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whoâs still hanging out around here? itâs me, your neighborhood busy-with-life burnout