I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
What Did E.T. Tell Elliott Before He Left?...
Forgetting what I was going to write about. Couldn't of been that important, could it? Who want's to come on over and rub my eyelids for me? Do it. I'll give you a dollar. I'm serious. It's almost my birthday, are we going camping? Do I care? Nope. Send me a package of tiny musicians. I want to let them run around by the computer, and then when I get sick of them - I'll coat them with sugar and unleash a hive of bees on them.
Am I mean? Yes.
Do I care? No.
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