I get dark gleams lit in my head. I ordered jumpsuits to sleep in my bed. It was winter by the time they were here. Talk to me people, know if we cohere. Talk to me people, know how we compare.
There’s no hope for the thinker who knows they’re there. There’s no hope for the thinker who thinks life is clear.
If there were boys in the milky way, If there were girls in the milky way, if there were mates in the milky way, there may be life on a Jupiter, say? there may be joy in the milky way?
Home sweet home. Second time I’ve lived that phrase. Been there once, twice, thrice, . . . Always loved one place then left that place – moved always, sang always, danced on some days – life again, live always. Living is a choice, Tyler would always sing. Yes, make a scene, make a name. Dance away, Sing away, Write away, Play the game. Yes, life is a choice, play that game. Don’t do fraud.
Sweet little time about it. Five hundred years is no bad thing. Five hundred years is how I’d live. Heaven is real in the evening not. The water is the source of my thirsty thoughts. Thoughts. Not Tongue. Not Tongue, Not Love. Not Thorns that disturb me. Thorns are up in the sofa. My thorn crowded sofa. My sofa in this lounge. You can’t sit here now. You can’t sit when I leave. Thorns tear up the sofa. They thorns pierce your arse. As it is written. Thou shall not sit.
*listening to the white stripes.
iamr 