
You'll want for gold light in this calaverous county, the sort which shines at the perfect insomnia. Fleas are swarms of truth. There could be stores nearby, and I was going toward the raw primordia that gives birth discretely. Purple had it so cold, black and in the sandman's grasp: the wandering Jew.
A moment unforgettable. I know it's more than festive. Even now, and way back when, everafter, and now and then.
I see you've been chugging absinthe again... naughty.
ReplyDeleteWe were all out of apple juice again.
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