Sunday, December 11, 2011

sometimes it's "let's see what I wrote last night"

I already know it doesn't match.

So fuck the inhibitions, impersonations, and misinterpretations because we're getting old. We're rusting like the carburetor in the truck driving us home. 
The sun is obscured by bellowing smokestacks; it rises in the snowy morning as if held by wires. An omnipotent puppeteer above us all makes us do our frantic Monday marionette dances.
We can't waste time on things that don't make us happy and warm, so we'll drive this lemon far away from this stinking city and the mistakes we may have made.

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