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65 days ago
请勿对号入座。 * * my quote unquote slight sitting-on-my-ass period of time is officially over now. i almost forgot how good it feels to have a hangover-free weekend. gris-gris 19-sep-2009 * * language doesn't picture things exactly as they are. instead, it replaces him with capital A and lower-case r-x-x-x-r. when did we start using language to express ourselves? does it make our expression stronger by replacing something with something else? gris-gris 21-sep-2009 * * ok. so this is what i really wanna say. i might have just met the most clueless thing ever. a douchebag who's been fucking around with everyone. i mean, dude, pls look at yourself. seriously, did you parents raise you on shit? do you have any idea how badly i've wanted to fire a warning shot into your head every time you bark at me in butchered english? oh dear lord. i know, there has to be a reason for him to be here. comic relief. his ...
194 days ago
I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth, and that was frightening. But I saw something that only I could see, because of my astonishing ability to see such things: Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles, and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules, of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them, and was repaired. Nothing's lost forever. In this world, there's a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that's so. So when we think we've escaped the unbearable ordinariness and, well, untruthfulness ...
299 days ago
. haven't slept for more than 36 hours and i still feel like shit. or should i say, feellikeshit again. . . "hey Jack it's me, i don't mean to bother you but something's been on my mind. at the end of this road that climbs the horizon will be reached in a matter of miles. and when the wheels cease to spin the walls and the fences will grow higher than redwood trees. and i know your demise. and i fear what will happen when the road fails to flow under me. oh Jack you see, i felt like your mirror with the wind whipping through my hair. when the wheels ceased to spin and i cased my surroundings, i realized i hadn't gone anywhere. when the problems i'd left with couches in alleys, where no one would ever claim. and the hardest part was sifting through the pieces of the rain soaked and rotten remains when i got home." .
430 days ago
the day is a german green with a dash of stupid blue you knew where I'd be and I had to look at you a day just as young as a brighton mother your telephone rang but you didn't bother after short years, I've stopped coming about I've scooped your fears and NYCed you out you didn't not know but still you burst don't let your love go to benson hearst don't worry I'm as cool as spanish whiskey ice I'm going to liverpool to live another life everytime between leeds and sheffield I count my deeds, and the dead killed
