The Last Will and Testament of a Man Who Never Was

And so the first clause did say that all the copyright, any revenues and any profits from any of his artistic output – whether written, photographic, blogged or any other content which in such a way could be so construed – he would bequeath to his three children in equal parts. 

And so the second clause did read that any liabilities for legal action carried out by anyone against such content, for whatever reason and with whatever motivation, should become the legal and moral responsibility, not of the children and owners of such content but, rather, of his widow – as actor directly responsible for the events which provoked their essential production.

And even were this not entirely a legal concept, he was perfectly, comfortably and totally at home with the moral sense and understanding underpinning, perhaps a little bizarrely, this whole and novel idea and split: both implicitly and explicitly, that is to say, with respect to the responsibility incurred through the above-mentioned assigning.

And so the third clause did tell that all his other possessions should become the legal property of his already mentioned children. 

And so finally, the last clause did communicate and the clause did underline and – in part – repeat some of the aforesaid and already asserted that nothing he owned should be handed on to his aforementioned wife, and that indeed any part of any properties jointly owned with his wife up to the moment of his death he, similarly, would bequeath to his aforementioned children.

And so he did finally write it to be his Last Will and Testament, as of 29th April 20_ _, in E_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ P_ _ _, in dark and solitary car park.

And so it was consequently, coherently and cogently signed by:

The Man Who Never Was

And so he knew not at all when this document would become of use.  And so he began slowly, ever so slowly, not to care any more when it would.  And so he started to realise the depth of his loneliness.  And so he gradually came close to seeing this curious whirled – in which, once, he had so wildly and wonderfully believed – as something not to be loved but to be battled day by day.

And eventually, to be battled to the moment when battle was no longer enough.

And ultimately, to accept one’s manifest and obvious fate: that of being and suffering and fighting and hating and occasionally, very occasionally, wondering truly, actually, really and grand what it must be like to once have been loved.

And so, finally, he accepted his dirty dirty job: that of universal spectator, and referee of wrong and right.

No embrace nor support nor love nor life which didn’t mean being driven and painful riven: driven and then riven this awful slow – this awful stealthy gentle sad.

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