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, January 28, 2004
Just A Minute Ago...
Her - You smell like a baby...
Me - What? Babies poop themselves.
Her - No, you smell like a good baby.
Me - ...That's because I just ate one.
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