Dinosaur hands. Mention little man. I love roses and toes. She hates noses. A little boy is on a train. His father is in the front car, his mother is in the servant car. One sentence could turn it all around. He’s listening to Busta Rhyme and realizes he does not have to rhyme every line. Typically his father is drunk off of a daiquiri and later on he’ll make love for the last time with her in a hot air balloon. Like they invented a different kind of flower. There’s lots of berries but still silence. People are choosing topics to debate and realizing that is not a game. Laughs erupt at the notion of media companies and goes on and on…
The oregano never tickled my nose, the way it did that Tuesday, when i stood painting, panting for air over the sink.
Everything was broken. There was no hope of salvation. The only way to go was west towards a new future; a new beginning.
And so the bombardiers came, God they came, in twos and threes, exploding between the pines. Sap and sweat mixed. Thousands were lost, but the needles change colors earlier now. Sunshine, freedom, beer, yet here we are, I ask why, but hey you’re still reading. go figure.
Art is one of those things that is above us. In fact, it’s so far above us that we cannot even comprehend where we end and it begins. Because it begins very, very high up. Like, majorly high. Go see a movie. Go read a book. Or better yet, go create something yourself. The world is too full with the art of other people. The world should be filled with your art. You and I and all of us are victims of our own lack of doing cool shit. Take a look at that sentence again. It sounds sort of lame and weird. But it’s true.
I wise woman once said going to sleep on the beach is like dying with wine.
There is no life in the second generation conversation of our parents’. It’s all about the story that we want to convey and realize that is it all that matters to most people.
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