And still the fringe looks out unto the lunatic wondering why.
Walk towards the lamp, Christian Dior robe rolling on the grass, laughing hysterically. Extrapolation.
I was passed out at 8pm Sunday night, woken up by old mates from a deep induced coma.
I was angry and thought it was 8am. After being presenting with a bottle of Scotch and a carton, I kept party on, radical.
At some stage we were at a coffee shop and due to my dominant stance on errors of customer service, William Deane received his medium Cappuccino for free.
What a Brooklyn zoo photo.
When were we at the coffee shop.
I don't remember and I choose not to remember. Fuck choosing life, choose one day at a time. The people, these people who don't listen to me, must be the petulant edge of humanity.
Hermagod?
I'd rather be a demigod.
Try a little something something.
Popeye is on repeat. Roadkill, lined up in a row, lit up with stolen service station petrol.
Popeye.
Check my pedigree, should of walked away when the street started crying crocodile tears, out the front of the Crocs shop.
Twenty times it swapped, but each time it evened out,
no need for the sorting room but the personal business recession breakdown boom.
It ain't nothing but for one of my personalities it's everything.
I know more about you than you do.
Be real.
Download Pug, or give yourself up, now.
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