Squalid Elk.

[Music: Flotation Toy Warning]


Seconal Stovepipe Puke.

Hey, sometimes the human lie detectors in rank fuck things up together. But what's all that got to do with dog-whistle affairs and such? Here's the point: we don't be ill with people. It’s very clear. In the typical style missed the point by a mile. It might have been nice if they'd sought some advice. Reprieve fiasco making unanticipated secrets seem almost comprehendable. I heard this before. Right on, Red Revelator. You understand it comes from where Pace Piquante sauce is not made? And let's see: suspend by the neck, command the house, their own cabarets were pretty weak. Efficient, Effective, Competent, as long as they think that compulsion will not become more intense, let them run around a little before lobbing in the grenades.

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I miss Windmill Island.

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Bid Me To Live (Coastal Completion).

A luminous fish plopped itself upon my concrete stoop as the sun rose from its bed of darkness. Casted from a hedious heritage, the specimen engulfed itself in outwardly jutting scales and bones, a blanket of seaweed rapped around it like a swaddling infant. The tarrot card stuck in the spokes of my back bike wheel read like something about an aquatic malfuntion simmering out of the collpase of The Mountain of Fire and the downward entrance (the only entrance) into Muspel being toppled over by a string of High Heart sword-jockeys and their black stallions with halos of ivory. This all got me thinking more than usual; the High Heart fuck-offs mainly executed vivid descriptions of wandering and sex within the confines of Aelfrice.

As my brain turned itself around to face anti-reality, Skai laughed and down showered leagues and leagues of soularrows to scrape off my identiy like limestone and rust from a leaf-swarmed gutter. By the Moonrider's rare and gleaming appearance, a giant pale squid, who was luckily furociously battling an adult sperm whale, intersected the rain of quiver projectiles. Yet another unlikely was taking place before me; there is no aquatic life in Muspel. It's all smoke, doom, gloom, crazy half-human dragons with heads as tongues and massive red sky that extends through the inside of old century canyons shaped like cannons. Snapped back to home court, a flopping luminous fish's light slowly dying out, gasoline found the extention of my body and I slathered it on the sealife associate by means of rubbber gloves. I quickly changed gloves, lit a match, and gave the fish back its light.