I inverted the saga.
serious man I'm serious it'll be the best time to come. leaves will change wonder how walk around the block. To walk around the bog block it's all before night sitting and waiting but carpet looking so comfortable. and the bedtime, dreaming how that girl the American on the node: sure, no problem, sit down and write that novel. two weeks, working.
Mommy you're so un changing it scares me, and we never talk.
[they dont make the choice for you to be old, you make me it.] the responsible the fragile, and music comes second by children and car eer err. house with four walls, so much together time trying to keep learning good for you? why bother.
mustache and all i'm a science boy, always a science man. the satisfaction of exactness the domestery and my commute is downtime, your writing is crappy. curry and rice and all things nice never to grow up and be like making that kind of choice. get over what? oh.
"give it a rest, old man."
Christ mas christ well what's it worth well we'll get that apartment. friend. me, crying about going back to public school and only oh if only to rewind 2 weeks just two weeks, that first day of break that snow. that potential. to give all three of them roses and take credit for them. Standing Up for yourself, boy. No Fighting. you went into my locker and you broke my glasses. 75 minutes, cooking it off. sure you will.
the yummy sound was like the knowing glance. [sure, things are fine here, except me NEVER choosing to go to Belgrade and me NEVER being inside your head. stop smoking.] And he found that girl, and curry and spice and all things, did you forget. you LIVE comedy, and you always WILL. just play the game, silly karma, tricks are for
"I just want to sit and read the paper and unwind."
there are one of us, so the dishes pile high, gleaming with tiny droplets of olive oil and sometimes staining the counter. there is a little spot by the toaster where, over this single year, the smooth white formica of our counter has worn right through thanks to the collective hours of scrubbing and sponging. we pile the pans and plates onto this spot and sometimes I wait until later to wash them. the bits of stir-fry are colored bright and the kitchen resonates with the flavors of supper and the darkness of my artwork and the sound of the dishwasher slowly whirring.
|tho many people have|
|been here and back|