Nov 2018
Short and long - a string
of wisdom is a hungry laboratory, marvelous teeth were prodigious. It is scare and it is big, and your skills and techniques need to make the ordering quality, decanter of living specter, your safety is instead a categorical imperative, the store a question of Office. Abject garbage, to the agitated dust! In and among the leaves, little house tortilla, is a future newspaper made of fresh newspapers? Leave, because we drove cars downtown high and were afraid of cops and authority figures. Our girlfriends were in the other house, perhaps across the country, but yelled in ****** moans at us while we wrote good stories of joy and Thanksgiving. We were hallelujah-like and saw men and their sons, drive around us on their way to soccer fields, while we sometimes ran in parks and looked at the highway, where the cars drove fast. Pretty and attractive girls made us invisible specks of disaster, I am unhappy today friend, tomorrow is Thanksgiving, November 21st, 2018. I am a thief, I get called a loser at 3in the morning while I go outside to smoke a cigarette, your tire is on fire and my dreams are of houses, last night I dreamt of my house, are chicken nuggets from Mac-Donald's, I felt attractive. When my father dies and mother passes, I will be 35, alone, the weather is not raining and snowing, it is, in fact, hot. In a bed writing more scribbled lines, ugly and awake, perhaps not wanting, hopefully thin, near emaciated, and I will play the piano thinking of my neighbors and the country, I will have a John Ashberry book on my shelf and on page 35 in Commotion of the Birds will be a holiday special line - much like today - something obscure - and if you don't, then I hope, and I do hope, you have a happy day.
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of wisdom is a hungry laboratory, marvelous teeth were prodigious. It is scare and it is big, and your skills and techniques need to make the ordering quality, decanter of living specter, your safety is instead a categorical imperative, the store a question of Office. Abject garbage, to the agitated dust! In and among the leaves, little house tortilla, is a future newspaper made of fresh newspapers? Leave, because we drove cars downtown high and were afraid of cops and authority figures. Our girlfriends were in the other house, perhaps across the country, but yelled in ****** moans at us while we wrote good stories of joy and Thanksgiving. We were hallelujah-like and saw men and their sons, drive around us on their way to soccer fields, while we sometimes ran in parks and looked at the highway, where the cars drove fast. Pretty and attractive girls made us invisible specks of disaster, I am unhappy today friend, tomorrow is Thanksgiving, November 21st, 2018. I am a thief, I get called a loser at 3in the morning while I go outside to smoke a cigarette, your tire is on fire and my dreams are of houses, last night I dreamt of my house, are chicken nuggets from Mac-Donald's, I felt attractive. When my father dies and mother passes, I will be 35, alone, the weather is not raining and snowing, it is, in fact, hot. In a bed writing more scribbled lines, ugly and awake, perhaps not wanting, hopefully thin, near emaciated, and I will play the piano thinking of my neighbors and the country, I will have a John Ashberry book on my shelf and on page 35 in Commotion of the Birds will be a holiday special line - much like today - something obscure - and if you don't, then I hope, and I do hope, you have a happy day.
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