Poets and writers drink more intensely. Smoke more intensely. Worship God more intensely. Poets and writers fuck more intensely. Poets and writers give more willingly-- spilling the alphabetical marrow of their souls out into the albino sonogram of hope that is the page, hoping some stranger whom he or she has never before met turns to his crafted syllables in time of dire need and somehow finds solace, finds laughter finds a friend.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Did I mention?
My boss is still fair-game for a fictional butchering. Expect to see his scalp sitting hefty on a heap of bargain books sometime soon.
4 comments:
did i smell the traces of sulking? (-;
hey, i posted this before seeing your comment on my blog... cheer up buddy (don't u hate when people say that?) but the sun shines behind the clouds.
Thanks sweetie.
My bosses name is Sam...not cool skip..for future references.
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