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With very little love or money whilst growing up, he had to create his own reality of what "fun" consisted of.​ For him, even the empty cardboard boxes that other's possessions arrived in were playthings he would never be so lucky to enjoy. However, there had been stories overheard in the playground of a speaking picture box and tales of heroic deeds that could actually be visualised in front of your very eyes, but never seemingly capable of making any friends who would share this experience, he could only imagine what these stories were like from the snippets gleaned from his eavesdrops...


With only the limited resources of the dirty detritus he could find around him he tried to recreate what he had heard, but the child's creations were flawed, and to those who witnessed them they were disgusting and repulsive. But like a god on benefits, this child would create life from that shit and for the child it would be his salvation...​ Due to the child's shear force of belief he was able to free his creative juices and let loose his imagination upon the things he found. These "things", he knew if it were not for him, would just be disposed of.

"Shit happens..." the child had been able to reason to himself. "But shit happening is a good thing right? If you let shit build up it will make you ill... and in some way ALL this shit that we see building up everywhere needs to be released somewhere, somehow... otherwise surely we could all die?!". This was not an alternative he was willing to allow. So the child continued to create his own version of reality where he processed this shit. 

The shit that he was finding, saving, reinventing, letting happen and letting go off were the various bits of shit he viewed his own life to be.

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