You Are The Ever-Living Ghost Of What Once Was

Anything to make you smile;
'Cause its a better side;
Of you to admire.

You want to know of what I'm made? About to find out because I'm splitting at the seams and there's a bed under this monster. Yeah, I yell, but he says shriek, and its all I can do, never properly trained in the ways of getting.your(my).fucking.point.across't. because of deaf ears, and my everything everything falling; upon them, hard. So he arts and I write and we both smoke and pretty soon I'm going to be rich and I'll never have to write again! Then I can finally sit down at the piano in peace for a piece and write him a song about false imprisonment and how I am so, so sorry for how I done him so, so wrong. And I will dedicate it to the slave drivers and the cage fighters and to the girls who settled down in their early twenties and suck more blood than a dentist. Smile for the digirati! I just want to be loved like Abigail Adams and you can do what you like but you can't do that and you can say what you want but don't say that and you can go anywhere but you can't go there cause you are descended from animals and you are constructed of chemicals and it is not an old wives' tale: everyone you know, some day, will die. Including me; then you can get your architect, so be patient. Today I got a speeding ticket and he asked me if I was wearing my corrective lenses. I told him that I thought I had pulled off to a safe spot but I secretly hoped a car would smash us both, although I am his Valentine all year 'round but I am going to stop this descent into madness now because I am already going to catch enough shit about my poor time-management.

In conclusion, I hated every single lover at la Madeleine today, eating their croissants and linzer cookies and laughing and carrying bouquets and the men pretending to be interested in their woman and the woman trying to be interesting, like one day has ever meant shit in the history of shit. I believe that lovers should be tied together and thrown into the ocean in a fierce squall or chained together and thrown into a fire with their songs and letters and left there to burn because you will spend the greenest summers fucking and water fighting and lovers should drown in their innocence and arrogance before it all dissolves into a single second and you and your over-developed sense of responsibility are left reeling from the force of one G and settling for a few brief moments of wishing that you were the type of girl who made men never want another.