09.Aug.2004
but it's kind of tempting, really.
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hmmm remastered
Goliath is driving me aimlessly down I 240 and he cocks an Irish head to his right to poise in a dark-cum-submissive tone, "So, do you think we, you know, have The Spark(tm)?"
I'm amused by this because several days ago I told all of fucking Diaryland I was sparked by something on which I wouldn't elucidate until I was amused enough to do so.
There are three letters that spell the unbound, untitled fantasy, and those letters are obviously Y, E & S.
He is so behemoth that he probably won't stop growing until he's around six-eight, and he's damn near six-six now, and to watch him sardined into a tiny black time-bomb of an American car is probably one of the most endearing things I've witnessed following my last tragic attempt to become one with Saturn's F Ring.
Unfortunately, it's one of those Bad Timing Vanilla Sky unions that's separated by dreams, an ex-girlfriend, and a few Western States come twelve days from now. I know. Tragic. Your belletristic slave simply cannot be appeased romantically until some fantastical lesson in life has been learned by everyone within a fifty kilometer radius of me, whatever the fuck that entails.
If you lose touch with your equilibrium, rest assured it's entirely my fault. I'm allergic to something in this room.
I'll be flying into John Wayne Airport in a Japanese skirt, and they'll be safely tucked into a subsistence they harbored before I walked through the door and ineluctably stole the heart of Andr� the Giant.
This means nothing to you, I'm sure.
But I like to write sonatas in my underwear and perform them for other people, underwear optional, and I explain this in a voice challenged by hot, black speed and the vacuum of the metropolis outside of his open car-windows, and he says with effervescent acceptance, "And one day I'll tell people I write naked sonatas with my girlfriend."
Despite how fulfilling this could all be (barring, of course, how terribly awful it is to everyone else but us right now), I fall asleep on the notion I'll set my "Return To" ticket ablaze from California's highest mountain. I know myself well enough to understand I can't financially afford to do that, but if it weren't a quandary, I probably would, and then ring all of my three cronies here and tell them to meet me somewhere in Monterey at a Denny's.
I'm not quite sure I agree with the idea people need other people, as operating sans physical communication has been a penchant of mine for several years. I do, however, concur I need to work on my degree and my brain chemicals before I throw my bloody, voracious heart at someone who could sling five of me over one shoulder and conquer a small Vietnamese village in the blink of an eye.
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time & machine