But what I really wanna know is...
http://kevan.org/johari?name=YustanShaleem
And in other news, the empire state building has decided to pack up its things and move out to colorado, where the mice take the thorns out of lions' paws just before the lions eat them and canker sores aren't actually a sign of the herp anymore.
Where spaceships land on the regular on girls with boys names travel daily, teasing their male counterparts with promises never to be kept and dealings never to be upheld. Yes Ralocoddo. Where the only people to be considered saints are killers and the DEA is on the prowl, ready to kill little girls carrying italian food.
Marrow bone sucked dry from its final resting place within it's mother's womb. Death and decay are well-accepted virtues in Boulder. Many men be buried within the concrete walls of the giant damn right along the mighty river, having carved it's quasi-permanent place in the enormously miniscule walls of eternity. And within the boundless boundaries of a misers imagination lies hidden the end of existence, that which can never be disclosed for it can never be imagined, yet somehow, there it is.
And the dying man crawls on and ruptures the teather, all contact with the inside world lost his lifeblood draining, the man falls to the pavement wimpering for some change, can you spare a quarter for the bus, ma'am? can you spare a dime so I can (buy this bottle) feed my kids? feed the addiction and sell his soul to the lowest bidder because there is no sense of value anymore
no not in colorado where the women where miniskirts on the mountaintops and the red red kroovy flows from the noses of the young boys playing outside the meat factory waiting for their turns to fly. waiting their turn to try to be an astronaut without a helmet, launched into space only to explode-implode give a dog-a-log-or-a-bag-o'-gritty-kitty while ren and stimpy plays on the ipod.
Yes, big bois and slutty goils, the hamburgers are great on the other side of the country. Especially when delivered by a man who more often plays men named jack than harrison ford. And he's better at it, too. Singing songs written by an elfman named danny, and pole-vaulting like an olympic softball player into our hearts and minds like romeo's blade.
Soft wimpers in the night tell me that the dream is at its end and colorado is no more. California is but a memory, drifted off the coast so long ago that no one remembers it anymore. The plausable reality behind the trumped-up myth is that I'm not the man I used to be and the girls...oh the girls! They'll always remember me.
Okay, that was wierd. Sometimes I do that with a pen and paper, but my fingers felt like dancing apparently.
Adieu
And in other news, the empire state building has decided to pack up its things and move out to colorado, where the mice take the thorns out of lions' paws just before the lions eat them and canker sores aren't actually a sign of the herp anymore.
Where spaceships land on the regular on girls with boys names travel daily, teasing their male counterparts with promises never to be kept and dealings never to be upheld. Yes Ralocoddo. Where the only people to be considered saints are killers and the DEA is on the prowl, ready to kill little girls carrying italian food.
Marrow bone sucked dry from its final resting place within it's mother's womb. Death and decay are well-accepted virtues in Boulder. Many men be buried within the concrete walls of the giant damn right along the mighty river, having carved it's quasi-permanent place in the enormously miniscule walls of eternity. And within the boundless boundaries of a misers imagination lies hidden the end of existence, that which can never be disclosed for it can never be imagined, yet somehow, there it is.
And the dying man crawls on and ruptures the teather, all contact with the inside world lost his lifeblood draining, the man falls to the pavement wimpering for some change, can you spare a quarter for the bus, ma'am? can you spare a dime so I can (buy this bottle) feed my kids? feed the addiction and sell his soul to the lowest bidder because there is no sense of value anymore
no not in colorado where the women where miniskirts on the mountaintops and the red red kroovy flows from the noses of the young boys playing outside the meat factory waiting for their turns to fly. waiting their turn to try to be an astronaut without a helmet, launched into space only to explode-implode give a dog-a-log-or-a-bag-o'-gritty-kitty while ren and stimpy plays on the ipod.
Yes, big bois and slutty goils, the hamburgers are great on the other side of the country. Especially when delivered by a man who more often plays men named jack than harrison ford. And he's better at it, too. Singing songs written by an elfman named danny, and pole-vaulting like an olympic softball player into our hearts and minds like romeo's blade.
Soft wimpers in the night tell me that the dream is at its end and colorado is no more. California is but a memory, drifted off the coast so long ago that no one remembers it anymore. The plausable reality behind the trumped-up myth is that I'm not the man I used to be and the girls...oh the girls! They'll always remember me.
Okay, that was wierd. Sometimes I do that with a pen and paper, but my fingers felt like dancing apparently.
Adieu