Avoid sanguine conceptions of prefatory material at all costs. They destroy lucidity, inspire rage, and are at best, marginal. Similarly, parenthetical data denies accessibility for the members of your audience whom you should highly regard. Blend sardonic, first-person observations with unnecessarily abstruse sentence constructions which achieve surface complexity. Inject riff-writing and riff-thinking - it's what the brain was programmed to do, and since it's a path of least resistance, I'll think I'll take it. The permutations are, of course, finite. Irregardless, there's a pretty explicit gradient despite the illogical negative prefix. This is not just rhetoric, it's law, and it's going to help me build my vast multimedia autobiography.
The plans...perfunctory, the palette...
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
Ahab's Future World
Stack dump { smbnntd }.
Slow-mo blood splattered stuttering, that's what we feel like around those types of people. In order to remove the bottleneck, a whole barrel of high-risk, invasive surgery is required. What a fucking shame. These days.
Slow-mo blood splattered stuttering, that's what we feel like around those types of people. In order to remove the bottleneck, a whole barrel of high-risk, invasive surgery is required. What a fucking shame. These days.
Sluggin'
The second iteration has a vague echo, but for the most part we're talking about the same thing. We're doing the same exact thing. All of our decisions are identical, we are clever composers. Indeed, 1985 was an extremely, extremely important year. It was our big break. March hymns and upbeat electronica inspired our lives.
Oh, how long can a charade last? Pretty long, apparently. That is the nature of a circle, you know, what goes around comes around. In due time, the pendulum swings and if you're standing where you were the last time it came around, you're going to get knocked out. Unfortunately, that's the nature of justice in this world. Fortunately, everyone drones around dumping sediment all over the next guy's alluvial plain - rarely incurring the wrath of the forward-swinging pendulum of justice. And that is what I have to show, [16.3], thanks.
I want to create a vast multimedia autobiography, but the multi keeps growing. I want to index it, but it's slipping from abstraction (which can't be a bad thing, I guess). Ya see, statements like that are going to get me in trouble. I must resist such things. Stack dump { smbnntwp }. A vast, multimedia autobiography. Unless you're straight with us, things will never change.
Oh, how long can a charade last? Pretty long, apparently. That is the nature of a circle, you know, what goes around comes around. In due time, the pendulum swings and if you're standing where you were the last time it came around, you're going to get knocked out. Unfortunately, that's the nature of justice in this world. Fortunately, everyone drones around dumping sediment all over the next guy's alluvial plain - rarely incurring the wrath of the forward-swinging pendulum of justice. And that is what I have to show, [16.3], thanks.
I want to create a vast multimedia autobiography, but the multi keeps growing. I want to index it, but it's slipping from abstraction (which can't be a bad thing, I guess). Ya see, statements like that are going to get me in trouble. I must resist such things. Stack dump { smbnntwp }. A vast, multimedia autobiography. Unless you're straight with us, things will never change.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Pangea Prison Blues
Dixie-bike Pyrenees aspirations quickly fractured amidst a gruesome confluence of greasy chains and femural toddler struts. So with a blue sharpie, Liz made Hippocrates proud while eternally frustrating the bamboo lobby. I'd be back for the north-eastern salty batter in a decade and a half. That's the last time I shifted gears so drastically. Two paths diverged, one back home - one into the mountains overlooking home, and when all the pieces came together under that smelly plaster, I was heading toward the dizzy height.
I took an oversized atlas and a deep interest in B727's. It was like being domestically abused with a wrench. All that carefully-plopped iconography, memorizing all those odd names, the straightforward but tedious goals. I'll never neglect Suriname. South Africa is a flourishing treasure trove. Isn't aviation a trip! The development of a passionate, secondary temperament thus began. You can keep trains and dinosaurs and cars and television, just give me a map.
Human anatomy is like a map, java.util.treemaps are actually not like maps but that was fine because by then I had already mastered the Minicomputer 2000 which operated BASIC. The instruction manual for that sucker mapped out all the commands, gave them little symbols, and I memorized them like La Paz and Sucre. I have an amazing idea, I'll type every world country and capital into a device with 0kb memory and then make it interactive. "LOOK [0]! You can ask it 'what's the capital of Canada?'" No it's not Toronto, it's Ottawa. No I don't want another piece of raw ditalini. Of course I did my homework already.
But yellow jerseys would be bestowed throughout the process, so drain the pity from your heart. I had a million jerseys. Eddie Jones was my favorite because the Lakers just have cool colors, but I was a Penny guy through and through. So was [0], she's the one who picked me up (after I dropped my bat). [0] sped over (what I thought) were the streams of Jamaica Bay as the eerily black, orange-rimmed clouds exploded all around us. We were both crying, and I was wearing a little league Orioles jersey. Black and orange.
We went to the basement as if a tornado was coming or something. Flipped on the television, red-sans-serif ticker at the bottom of every channel. Clearly TWC was where we needed to be as [1] navigated the polar Conduits on either side of the Belt. Map overload...infantile nursing flashback through the precipitation of tears. When [1] got home, the warm-colored Doppler 2000 pixels were hard-coded into my soul (and Minicomputer 2000).
Under the subungal hematoma quilt, we bravely gathered on the second floor and watched the news media flicker on and off as intense lightning jolted our veins. Obviously obsessed with the anchors' poise, with the highly-detailed maps, and with the persistent ticker outlining geography that could be seen from a window of a 727 as it let down its landing gear and rattled my house between thunder claps - a map and media-loving computer scientist cuddled with his mom.
I took an oversized atlas and a deep interest in B727's. It was like being domestically abused with a wrench. All that carefully-plopped iconography, memorizing all those odd names, the straightforward but tedious goals. I'll never neglect Suriname. South Africa is a flourishing treasure trove. Isn't aviation a trip! The development of a passionate, secondary temperament thus began. You can keep trains and dinosaurs and cars and television, just give me a map.
Human anatomy is like a map, java.util.treemaps are actually not like maps but that was fine because by then I had already mastered the Minicomputer 2000 which operated BASIC. The instruction manual for that sucker mapped out all the commands, gave them little symbols, and I memorized them like La Paz and Sucre. I have an amazing idea, I'll type every world country and capital into a device with 0kb memory and then make it interactive. "LOOK [0]! You can ask it 'what's the capital of Canada?'" No it's not Toronto, it's Ottawa. No I don't want another piece of raw ditalini. Of course I did my homework already.
But yellow jerseys would be bestowed throughout the process, so drain the pity from your heart. I had a million jerseys. Eddie Jones was my favorite because the Lakers just have cool colors, but I was a Penny guy through and through. So was [0], she's the one who picked me up (after I dropped my bat). [0] sped over (what I thought) were the streams of Jamaica Bay as the eerily black, orange-rimmed clouds exploded all around us. We were both crying, and I was wearing a little league Orioles jersey. Black and orange.
We went to the basement as if a tornado was coming or something. Flipped on the television, red-sans-serif ticker at the bottom of every channel. Clearly TWC was where we needed to be as [1] navigated the polar Conduits on either side of the Belt. Map overload...infantile nursing flashback through the precipitation of tears. When [1] got home, the warm-colored Doppler 2000 pixels were hard-coded into my soul (and Minicomputer 2000).
Under the subungal hematoma quilt, we bravely gathered on the second floor and watched the news media flicker on and off as intense lightning jolted our veins. Obviously obsessed with the anchors' poise, with the highly-detailed maps, and with the persistent ticker outlining geography that could be seen from a window of a 727 as it let down its landing gear and rattled my house between thunder claps - a map and media-loving computer scientist cuddled with his mom.
Sunday, July 2, 2006
Pinkseam
...and the Silver Bullet Band.
Follow my lead on this one, ok? We can arrange ourselves side by side, some on top of each other, some down below. Turn to the right. Turn to the right. Jump. Strap on your yellow cape and jump off a building onto the Avenue of Americas. $1.30 for a Sprite!? I'd pay much, much more for that.
The sky at night looms over the parkway with the digital facelift. That time doesn't count as much as I told you it would. I'd love to hear some divine pearls of wisdom from our new pastor, it's never by far. Bold red text is a tricky proposition, you can really pull it off or you can really pull [through]. There could be hail in the area, chip away tonight at the window. "What's the speed limit for deoxygenated blood? I think I have a violator in my body." Time doesn't matter when the parkway becomes my most important organ.
Recall the story of the Supreme Being who gave three of his subjects different fates. One subject was blessed with financial excess and a long life with many grandchildren. Another subject was given a Columbia-colored collar and an overwhelming desire to return to the green village with the murky crawlpipe to the Kingdom. The final subject was given long tan legs and a lecherous father who broke her mother's heart by refusing to be angry that the mother had cheated first. The magnanimous Watcher told the subjects, "take what I've given you and invest it in the world that [0] and [1] made for you (recursive stack trace, clearly), then return to me in twenty years and show me what you've done."
The first subject hired an accountant to concoct charitable works that would offset the taxes on his fate's interest. He wound up squandering his fate on cocaine and aesthetically-pleasing sweatsuits. The second subject learned many trades and put up a corkboard in his garage on which he hung his trades each night before he went to bed. The great care he took organizing his trades at night earned him national acclaim. He created electronic aliases to his talents so he could lock them away in that celebrity garage. Unfortunately it was fated that he misread the network protocol configuration on his talent retrieval PDA and eventually lose connection with his talents and return to his green village in shame. The third subject never had many opportunities to alter her fate negatively, so she just persisted with the nobility instilled in her just after she was delivered by an angel disguised as a nurse. This worked out for the third subject, and when she returned to the Great Director her every wish was granted except the one about true love.
It's odd, Missy.
Follow my lead on this one, ok? We can arrange ourselves side by side, some on top of each other, some down below. Turn to the right. Turn to the right. Jump. Strap on your yellow cape and jump off a building onto the Avenue of Americas. $1.30 for a Sprite!? I'd pay much, much more for that.
The sky at night looms over the parkway with the digital facelift. That time doesn't count as much as I told you it would. I'd love to hear some divine pearls of wisdom from our new pastor, it's never by far. Bold red text is a tricky proposition, you can really pull it off or you can really pull [through]. There could be hail in the area, chip away tonight at the window. "What's the speed limit for deoxygenated blood? I think I have a violator in my body." Time doesn't matter when the parkway becomes my most important organ.
Recall the story of the Supreme Being who gave three of his subjects different fates. One subject was blessed with financial excess and a long life with many grandchildren. Another subject was given a Columbia-colored collar and an overwhelming desire to return to the green village with the murky crawlpipe to the Kingdom. The final subject was given long tan legs and a lecherous father who broke her mother's heart by refusing to be angry that the mother had cheated first. The magnanimous Watcher told the subjects, "take what I've given you and invest it in the world that [0] and [1] made for you (recursive stack trace, clearly), then return to me in twenty years and show me what you've done."
The first subject hired an accountant to concoct charitable works that would offset the taxes on his fate's interest. He wound up squandering his fate on cocaine and aesthetically-pleasing sweatsuits. The second subject learned many trades and put up a corkboard in his garage on which he hung his trades each night before he went to bed. The great care he took organizing his trades at night earned him national acclaim. He created electronic aliases to his talents so he could lock them away in that celebrity garage. Unfortunately it was fated that he misread the network protocol configuration on his talent retrieval PDA and eventually lose connection with his talents and return to his green village in shame. The third subject never had many opportunities to alter her fate negatively, so she just persisted with the nobility instilled in her just after she was delivered by an angel disguised as a nurse. This worked out for the third subject, and when she returned to the Great Director her every wish was granted except the one about true love.
It's odd, Missy.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Metacarpal Corridor
Just do "Fidel" and "Andalusia," the rest suck.
I hold you up to the unfiltered light billowing through the canyon, and life leaves your pathetic body and you shrivel. Oh, the endless torture I endure by the folds of your limbless body. Is everything connected? Can I get a verification on the connection status? Can I get some lubrication or something? A stimulant...a stimulant Fatima, dixie cup drinking. Bladder control has always been my forte. Will I stay or will I go? It's not will. It's just not. They blame it on anxiety. I blame it on the connection. So let's go to the metacarpal corridor and consult the figures...
On the golden goddess of Sicily...I want you, I will always want you. Those gorgeous hands. I'll go under. You can go under. I will tumble down a marble staircase for you golden goddess, I will crash through a poorly planted green plastic fence, I will roll through twigs and syringes, I will dodge 6 sets of infrequent automobile traffic, and I will swim to New Jersey for you, because after all, you edited the New York Monthly! They've given you a farm animal, I will give you a pathetic massage, for my hands are downright insignificant compared to yours, golden goddess.
On the yellow femured Georgian...You disgrace my favorite color but you are closest to my heart, and certainly my head. Faint dewdrop spinster. Delicate toetip icepick snarestone. Reeeeacccccoowwwww.
On the red sweatered South African...My senior column in Spectator is likely going to be about bleeding-heart liberals, and how I have (finally) figured out who to hate. Honey, consider it done. I've been wondering for a long time now, when you turn your back to me, are you masterbating?
On the bluebooted Sikh...tiny, tiny, I can't pronounce that, I guess you don't either. Ambition. Ambition. La la la...boy I've added so much by attatching the ethnicities. I like can't write about him now. Or is it a she? The figure seems to possess, in the words of...nah. From this vantage point, my perspective is skewed. I can't help. On me. Ambition. I'm done. Watch what I do with the next figure.
On the blue reptilian ostrich...Sneaky sneaky sneaky. A moan. A cry! A little device. Smoke on the water against the stench of horse excrement. Makin' movies like ferris wheel-starved children - it's perfect! Pound. Arena of my birth, right at centercourt, there i was, naked as the day I was naked in Maine under the white sheets with the flimsily locked door. I'll be fine, you won't! I slither like bawls, skinny little lizard-layered testicles, they are baaaaaaloooooooo.
On the small white ball casting a shadow the length of my torso...I am in sync. ha. Don't forget to pack() when you're done with that project Don Abuelito Sanchez. I can't resist 0 I just think about those days constantly, hearing my number called, running out to centercourt, grabbing the ball and going in for a finger-roll layup. Offsides hike! Offsides hike! They hold you up. to. the awe. some. show. here. now. watch the unfiltered billowing light smother you.
On Oscar...Fidel, I love you. You have taught me so much. I'm not talking about an ordinary man. People like him come along as frequently as do ice ages. He lives across the street from Aqueduct Racetrack in South Ozone Park, my hometown. He taught me how a human can possess 7 of Benjamin Franklin's virtues. He taught me how a corkboard can be the coolest looking thing in a garage. He taught me that barbecuing doesn't have to be a fucking Broadway production, and that sausage can be made from animals besides pork. He liked baby-back ribs, but I never got into them. It's because you have to use your hands and I don't like getting messy, and he showed me why saying stuff like that disgusts him. He made me self-conscious of my inadequacies, but he showed me how to fucking strut my stuff when I hit a conversation stride. He taught me how to hit a golf ball, he taught me compassion and how to be a fucking nasty dickhead. He taught me anger and he taught me to love people who love things. Fidel, if you read this, call me. 516-375-0272. ok? I love you, you were my first mentor, and I will weep endlessly at your funeral. Nick and Chris, you guys are so lucky. Also Fidel and I share the same birthday.
On Rebecca Romijn in X-Men...as the clouds sweep between us I take Mother Nature's broomstick, and ... (never before has CHCG seen such a bad train of thought).
On the purple centurion who didn't believe like Nicodemus...I admired his defiance, he continued to persecute people that pissed him off. The purple centurion ambled toward his wife in the charred meadow and they made love during the break between peacetime tollbooth guard. STOMP goes the ladybug, little red, bug blood and yellow-green oozy insides.
On the fertile cranium of the gravedigger...chop the ends of the branches off occasionally to ensure proper, evenly distributed growth. I believe the word they use nowadays is 'prune,' but i definitely could be mistaken. You have about 1000 angstroms to work with once you pass infrared light on the electromagnetic spectrum, and let me tell you, the gravedigger has done a fantastic job. He seems to have perfectly groomed some Arizona birch bark with vibrant green Shikoku leaves (an extra 500 angstroms, give or take). Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
On Bob Barker's soul...how much? The midas touch. Warning. Caution. If you smoke with me, Daddy, I'll make it worth your while, your eternal while the cameras stopped shooting, I caressed your forearm. I turned it...INTO GOLD!
On the terraces of Andalusia...I realized, repetition in small detail intrigues many people, but it doesn't just intrigue them, it completely stifles their intellectual growth. It has for me, anyway. I call it the "enchilada effect." (Mexico City 1900s -->Granada 1400s is way too much of a stretch so don't even go there.) You get a plate, the whole enchilada, if you will. You love all the shit in there but you just can't eat it because there's SO MANY little glorious components to digest. It's 10% zoom on a spreadsheet, ya know? It's sustainable development (without Sachs). It's the lower-class' mudejar ceiling. It's Brother Cajeb's Babylon, and his sister's bloodstains on Daddy's new tie, illuminated by FoxNews coverage of the "heightening insurgency" in Afghanistan.
On the disbelief of a Steve Williams centaur wearing golden pants that accentuate its ass, a blood-red velvet jacket, and a Fossil watch... (secret words never to be printed).
I see a wedding, and apparently it's human. From a tower a sniper protects the groom and bride. She is beautiful, unimaginably beautiful, and she is mine (unless a bullet from the sniper's muzzle hits the jump rope she'll swing during the ceremony). Or, I am still a lifeless sack of shit who can't afford a doctor. I'll check the connection one more time, but don't get your hopes up.
I hold you up to the unfiltered light billowing through the canyon, and life leaves your pathetic body and you shrivel. Oh, the endless torture I endure by the folds of your limbless body. Is everything connected? Can I get a verification on the connection status? Can I get some lubrication or something? A stimulant...a stimulant Fatima, dixie cup drinking. Bladder control has always been my forte. Will I stay or will I go? It's not will. It's just not. They blame it on anxiety. I blame it on the connection. So let's go to the metacarpal corridor and consult the figures...
On the golden goddess of Sicily...I want you, I will always want you. Those gorgeous hands. I'll go under. You can go under. I will tumble down a marble staircase for you golden goddess, I will crash through a poorly planted green plastic fence, I will roll through twigs and syringes, I will dodge 6 sets of infrequent automobile traffic, and I will swim to New Jersey for you, because after all, you edited the New York Monthly! They've given you a farm animal, I will give you a pathetic massage, for my hands are downright insignificant compared to yours, golden goddess.
On the yellow femured Georgian...You disgrace my favorite color but you are closest to my heart, and certainly my head. Faint dewdrop spinster. Delicate toetip icepick snarestone. Reeeeacccccoowwwww.
On the red sweatered South African...My senior column in Spectator is likely going to be about bleeding-heart liberals, and how I have (finally) figured out who to hate. Honey, consider it done. I've been wondering for a long time now, when you turn your back to me, are you masterbating?
On the bluebooted Sikh...tiny, tiny, I can't pronounce that, I guess you don't either. Ambition. Ambition. La la la...boy I've added so much by attatching the ethnicities. I like can't write about him now. Or is it a she? The figure seems to possess, in the words of...nah. From this vantage point, my perspective is skewed. I can't help. On me. Ambition. I'm done. Watch what I do with the next figure.
On the blue reptilian ostrich...Sneaky sneaky sneaky. A moan. A cry! A little device. Smoke on the water against the stench of horse excrement. Makin' movies like ferris wheel-starved children - it's perfect! Pound. Arena of my birth, right at centercourt, there i was, naked as the day I was naked in Maine under the white sheets with the flimsily locked door. I'll be fine, you won't! I slither like bawls, skinny little lizard-layered testicles, they are baaaaaaloooooooo.
On the small white ball casting a shadow the length of my torso...I am in sync. ha. Don't forget to pack() when you're done with that project Don Abuelito Sanchez. I can't resist 0 I just think about those days constantly, hearing my number called, running out to centercourt, grabbing the ball and going in for a finger-roll layup. Offsides hike! Offsides hike! They hold you up. to. the awe. some. show. here. now. watch the unfiltered billowing light smother you.
On Oscar...Fidel, I love you. You have taught me so much. I'm not talking about an ordinary man. People like him come along as frequently as do ice ages. He lives across the street from Aqueduct Racetrack in South Ozone Park, my hometown. He taught me how a human can possess 7 of Benjamin Franklin's virtues. He taught me how a corkboard can be the coolest looking thing in a garage. He taught me that barbecuing doesn't have to be a fucking Broadway production, and that sausage can be made from animals besides pork. He liked baby-back ribs, but I never got into them. It's because you have to use your hands and I don't like getting messy, and he showed me why saying stuff like that disgusts him. He made me self-conscious of my inadequacies, but he showed me how to fucking strut my stuff when I hit a conversation stride. He taught me how to hit a golf ball, he taught me compassion and how to be a fucking nasty dickhead. He taught me anger and he taught me to love people who love things. Fidel, if you read this, call me. 516-375-0272. ok? I love you, you were my first mentor, and I will weep endlessly at your funeral. Nick and Chris, you guys are so lucky. Also Fidel and I share the same birthday.
On Rebecca Romijn in X-Men...as the clouds sweep between us I take Mother Nature's broomstick, and ... (never before has CHCG seen such a bad train of thought).
On the purple centurion who didn't believe like Nicodemus...I admired his defiance, he continued to persecute people that pissed him off. The purple centurion ambled toward his wife in the charred meadow and they made love during the break between peacetime tollbooth guard. STOMP goes the ladybug, little red, bug blood and yellow-green oozy insides.
On the fertile cranium of the gravedigger...chop the ends of the branches off occasionally to ensure proper, evenly distributed growth. I believe the word they use nowadays is 'prune,' but i definitely could be mistaken. You have about 1000 angstroms to work with once you pass infrared light on the electromagnetic spectrum, and let me tell you, the gravedigger has done a fantastic job. He seems to have perfectly groomed some Arizona birch bark with vibrant green Shikoku leaves (an extra 500 angstroms, give or take). Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
On Bob Barker's soul...how much? The midas touch. Warning. Caution. If you smoke with me, Daddy, I'll make it worth your while, your eternal while the cameras stopped shooting, I caressed your forearm. I turned it...INTO GOLD!
On the terraces of Andalusia...I realized, repetition in small detail intrigues many people, but it doesn't just intrigue them, it completely stifles their intellectual growth. It has for me, anyway. I call it the "enchilada effect." (Mexico City 1900s -->Granada 1400s is way too much of a stretch so don't even go there.) You get a plate, the whole enchilada, if you will. You love all the shit in there but you just can't eat it because there's SO MANY little glorious components to digest. It's 10% zoom on a spreadsheet, ya know? It's sustainable development (without Sachs). It's the lower-class' mudejar ceiling. It's Brother Cajeb's Babylon, and his sister's bloodstains on Daddy's new tie, illuminated by FoxNews coverage of the "heightening insurgency" in Afghanistan.
On the disbelief of a Steve Williams centaur wearing golden pants that accentuate its ass, a blood-red velvet jacket, and a Fossil watch... (secret words never to be printed)
I see a wedding, and apparently it's human. From a tower a sniper protects the groom and bride. She is beautiful, unimaginably beautiful, and she is mine (unless a bullet from the sniper's muzzle hits the jump rope she'll swing during the ceremony). Or, I am still a lifeless sack of shit who can't afford a doctor. I'll check the connection one more time, but don't get your hopes up.
Sunday, May 7, 2006
Sunspotty
I flattened my baby eyeballs against the veiny beige plastic window of the DC-9. I owned that ball of holy light, especially at that altitude, and Alice was gonna hear about it from me. They told me it would be the Pacific coast, they said it throughout the entire screenplay, and all we get are US Virgin Islands? There's a big red sky...in my raging eyes, light it up, light it up. It builds, the tension, it builds...Whooaaaaaooow, does that quite capture it? Did that crystallize it? How many K's? How many K's before I give up on this whole K-thing. $200 to a good cause, the signs warn. They say, don't give money to panhandlers, be skeptical! That just gets you closer to the sun, inscribed on a belly, of a woman, who used to be pregnant. There was a much greater distance between my Mickey Mouse ears over in MCO and my arrogance here 2.6 km SW of LGA. Take home, take home, via solaris majoris exhalus. Budweiser. Eeeeeesshhh. I knew the cue, and I missed it on purpose. These days, when I'm done, the red, raging eyes. The red, bloody son.
The clouds have obstructed my view of the sun occasionally, but I've always known it's there. Like a little boy. Snare, snare, snare, snare - (staccato). I've always been a fan of the 'favor+de' construction. And now we pause for station identification.
Hi, I'm 23rd and Broadway, I've been um, here for....I don't know, about 90 years, yeah. People don't realize how close I am to Park Avenue, yeah, I mean, I'm a good station, lots of action winter 2002, since I've been as pure as a saint. And we're back...
The taller I stand the closer I get to that holy light, and when I don't do it with the right caution, it burns. Hey, at least it still burns right? Some people's heads stay above the clouds more than others, and I reckon they're fucked. Tempting. They're charred. Oh man, you didn't. They've put their brains in the world's furnaces and they come out looking like cooked lambs. Forced the Blake there, everyone missed your point. You could argue that we're between pigmentation or plain egotism, excuse me, are you kidding me? But near the sun those two things are the same thing. Scratches head. I'd rather know what I knew back then even earlier, because it's way more cloudy in Western Europe than in Texas. You again! In another life. In another life! I got another life!
[15] is set to light the ground. In thirty years I'll climb my remote Splash Mountain atop Kilamanjaro. Our children will watch with sable eyes from the clouds. A tremor will seize me as I gaze, but my skin will endure, and my good blood will keep pumping. So let me get this straight, William Steven Matthews - didn't work, again. That's what I gain from marveling at the summit all these years. I'm thinkin' George Seurat, even today. How do you do? I'm overwhelmed.
Here we have a completely naked post, devoid of Hamiltonian pathways, injected with A Dream and [How He Saved] St. Michael. - Hamiltonian pathways added 5/10/06.
The clouds have obstructed my view of the sun occasionally, but I've always known it's there. Like a little boy. Snare, snare, snare, snare - (staccato). I've always been a fan of the 'favor+de' construction. And now we pause for station identification.
Hi, I'm 23rd and Broadway, I've been um, here for....I don't know, about 90 years, yeah. People don't realize how close I am to Park Avenue, yeah, I mean, I'm a good station, lots of action winter 2002, since I've been as pure as a saint. And we're back...
The taller I stand the closer I get to that holy light, and when I don't do it with the right caution, it burns. Hey, at least it still burns right? Some people's heads stay above the clouds more than others, and I reckon they're fucked. Tempting. They're charred. Oh man, you didn't. They've put their brains in the world's furnaces and they come out looking like cooked lambs. Forced the Blake there, everyone missed your point. You could argue that we're between pigmentation or plain egotism, excuse me, are you kidding me? But near the sun those two things are the same thing. Scratches head. I'd rather know what I knew back then even earlier, because it's way more cloudy in Western Europe than in Texas. You again! In another life. In another life! I got another life!
[15] is set to light the ground. In thirty years I'll climb my remote Splash Mountain atop Kilamanjaro. Our children will watch with sable eyes from the clouds. A tremor will seize me as I gaze, but my skin will endure, and my good blood will keep pumping. So let me get this straight, William Steven Matthews - didn't work, again. That's what I gain from marveling at the summit all these years. I'm thinkin' George Seurat, even today. How do you do? I'm overwhelmed.
Here we have a completely naked post, devoid of Hamiltonian pathways, injected with A Dream and [How He Saved] St. Michael. - Hamiltonian pathways added 5/10/06.
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