Friday, November 4, 2011
Not very metal unless you're from Yorkshire.
No rose, so any excess cheese is excised before it's grilled, seared as a seal that cannot be peeled, impromptu ceremony marked by the peal of chance. Red,
again, so slip into half-assed research. Once I start. I should. The second pandemonic paper looms, titan bulk, & tales of spattered blood, stray limbs,
& scattered goals. The subject is interest, the process, this process, a hoop with flames of fire, waiting for the messenger on the wind to scatter
foolishness, my trade. Tra la la la -- should there be three, or four? Or just one, Damocles or a mirror'd berserker swinging schadenfreude down?
Up to my neck in dismembered opinions on matters of Import, & things that Matter, clueless as ever, the latter being the worst, for I am selfish, after all.
There. Now I'll feel better for the next 8 minutes & 43 seconds, perfecting just the right amount of steps in my Snoopy dance. Dirges keep wonderful time.