hack into the tree, receive a treat. the single most reliable source has just been thrown out the window, and the bus has it's stops to make. why can't the man downstairs see that this is making me vomit. "and all over my white carpet"?! i've got leftovers of last night like a doggie bag and the sensation of dirty eyes and repressed chapel hillpsters brings back the saliva, and, "oh"! (vomits).

lyrics i wrote for a BLOODFACED CHILDBRIDE/ELECTRIC HIPS spazzdance groove (for added pleasure, make bass beats and sound effex while screaming/reading out loud like a robot dying of cancer in the middle of the wilderness surrounding the euphrates:

standard turbulence, vintage white and monuments. we've got the substance. make no mistake.

mothers make the babies and they've got loose heads, so we screw them on tighter. where's the handshake, gentleman?

twenty up- i'm forty down. plastic comfort drains my face of all the drama.