When you have the heart and output of a frustrated poet and life kicks you in the testes, the dispenser should eat a dose of his own medicine.
Cut a fat slice of his own rhetoric.
Eat it - swallow it, try it on for size. Pretend it tastes good.
Use the keys for the internal locks that he knows and try them on the locks he doesn't.
Maybe one lever will give.
Maybe two.
Maybe that's enough to force the door.
Or maybe not.
He could lubricate the mechanism with a healthy dose of self pity.
Or get on with picking the rest with the arsenal of a locksmith.
Whatever it takes to find a way to recover and regrow, to recognise, reorder and repair.
And to see what tumbles.
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