thanks to the stumpgrinders for making my windowsill sunnier; time's a waste, and what other past-times do i find?
my mama blogs about looking down, and when i have, i've seen sticks divided in two, pointing left and to right. looking to the horrorscopes for help, i learn to plan for the next eight years, but i only get as far as tomorrow's breakfast and counting quarters. now that i avoid the kitchen i don't listen to the clock tick nearly as often. i get on onetrain oneperson, and descends une autre le meme.
spit in the eye; identity theft: thirty five years for saline-ated impudence. now he waits for the disease to set in, fuming, de-noculated. but, oh! avenged.
