concentrate on all that life has to offer without being smothered by your mother (or old gran). cons and pros. contemplating the pros. glass half full and filling further. the more you pedal, the less petrol. the Russia of Dostoevsky’s time, the characters, are getting to me, with precision, like wood screws digging into skin. twist slow steady. and chess chess chess. this is where it all begins: morning, then night. your mood changes and you wanna associate peanut butter with anything that’s remotely edible. hey lets go over to full size and be larger than life. surreal visions open the laughter and cause you to share with your friends. some days you wake up short. others are built for sliding boards at the park. at seven I had a scattered concentration aside from fighting back the bullies and establishing potential death blows that were ready to mature into something so much more given I’d live on to tell the tale. now I’m at the table and telling the tale. every bit of it is scattered up magnetic on someone’s fridge, from a less than magnetic personality from afar. but you judge and when you judge your stuck back in that land. goodbye!
we envy others who are good looking without seeing what is good looking in ourselves and forget in the moments when we need it most that music is orgasmic and sends large hammers through plexaglass depression on command.
you cannot jump into my body nor I yours and take on responsibilities assigned by an invisible personage. the audience agrees with this, every word, nodding approvingly, and is therefore stylin’.