Platitude, platitude, lie lie platitude.
welcome to
surreality bites.
Happy birthday from Planet Motherfucker.
Sometimes I talk about people in the present tense so I can pretend they are still part of me.
Of all the gin joints in all the world, he had to walk into mine.
I wonder how long he's been sitting on that bar stool, watching me dance and talk and laugh, feeling the grievous embarassment of the adolescent who suddenly discovers their teenage antics are being watched by real grownups.
Smoking,
drinking gin. Quit playing my song, dammit.
Thelonious Chipmonk on the juke, what an unbearably wierd piece of music. I may be the only person who has that tape, and several others, sound of a toilet flushing and your voice, along with a bundle of
Stagebills and a few letters, in an architectural hand.
Angel from Montgomery
You meant for this story to be read by me and I would like you to respond.
As if he knew that words were how I kissed.
You have no idea how much....
a case of the might-have-beens.