Any day would start with a smile arriving late in a place coming nearer, but usually nothing quite works that way. It was the usual morning with mobile phones ringing, and my attention was focused on the figure seated by my side. Someone from ages ago: Moments flowed of the poor and deranged, who are actually living in my living room ("Oy, you! These goddamn creeps are here again!") I am my head and that is what you don't seem to catch in the Free World of broken English. In this reality we are representatives to the cause of youth itself, which seems desirous of limiting the freedom of youth, it is only in two corses of other attention discussed just by the hour. Just like I could do better than this with gold all over my face, like in the memory where the primary common idea was to set the trains full of social life (dial 0800-PERVERSE) in one thing only. And all this reminds me of the warm thigh pressed - they just drop - having to discuss traditional liberty in any discussion that indicates hard routine. I believe it couldn't be any other way, but only because that action presupposes knowledge and therefore always sits keeping it going. If you have a point to make, you might as well fucking say it. As for any fundamentalists in these days past, they don't even seem to fit all this. It is known as Imitation Crap Meat (ICM). The rest of the story seems to hate me seeing reality as up another reality ("upstick job asswise") of narrow-minded assholes with all their excesses stomping on the grammar of unknown numerologies. Stupid one-track minds drawing each other's attention, it's like some other day with this instrument against mine.
And in a way all the trees dropped their leaves, living a life like the political future of the seriously endangered statement in custodian freedom and more. It is true that in this age this freedom is properly licence, like the husband who grew an enormous spare cock on his forehead. So this would mean that animals too are born free, in freedom of what the drunken choice entails. The shock and the specials use my neuronyme. All the youngsters and foreigners are constantly coming here for a quick shag in the toilet, they told me. But even then I can still recall the fear side by side, their lovers just a bunch of liars making me sick. Even my joke was worn a bit thin. And I saw a black man. The nightly telephone, yes I really appreciate you telling me all this, I didn't even notice you were gone. The laguage was something to sponsor me, something really unintelligible. I miss all the greenery, but once brought back it would just be too boring. It would gratefully deny everything I was so sure of, rebuilding the casualities on its way. I know we can get along, 'cos I'm a Crapnicorn. Something in the figure made me put on an old stinky record ("correct playback @ 666 rpm only") creating a pompous song in the rage of the revolution. Old music fades away - we have yet to sing the more beautiful songs, as the mountains stand over the need to hurry again. The morning was pure nonsense, and so be it in the world of absurd anticlimaxes.
The breakfast was one of those supporting my arachnid diets, after which I might as well vomit pearl tie necklaces all over the red walls. How could I be so sure of whatever it might be - the small black book was just another excuse. The professor won't like it that way. All of his extremist phonetics have been sustained. I shall not repeat what he said. This might want to serve him, as the art hereby presented turns him male again, and I shall include a nasty little help for some other forms of erotic art - I feel it is going out of the scene of the white forces, meeting a man in The Church of Bed Sheets. The Church is intended to very much insult someone skullfucking the dead hypocrisies in a glass coffin. It has me working for the newsletter sent to thorns and nails - after all, the Church has an intelligence film of one of its inmates, where the final thrust is shown in forms of bad wisdom, although they let him keep a spear by his side in another ritual before this. A balloon. And, finally, the body of a man who minded you neighboring our state has been tortured for the fun of our hypocrite country. I had the science that prevented him from receiving earlier issues. At a closer look the penitentiary was reached by flogging, by the priests, because at a shooting range it was rejected by the hideous crown of those who deserve it all. I will thrive my vest! Overdosing on excuses, again... FUCK THE FACTS. Cut. Cut it all. Cut anything.
Now.
"Right, enough. I'm gonna piss off."
Fucking creeps, too fucking cold. I am seen by the Church, as many other hapless forms depict some instances that insist that I look around to just please and my folk manages to fever the unknown, and as I entertain the naked I fail to get the point. And I never wanted anyone who might care for his/her own business only and minds getting theirs, and therefore always hanging above with their assholes like the faecal Italian communist heroes - the countries of the youth movements seeming nonsensical to the age when the old seem to limit the number of those born free, choosing between all they can take, drawing each word uttered - anything could be like the early morning with figures reminding me of that happiness I bemoan.