Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Sad old man drinks koolade in the shade with a cat on his lap and a buck in his pocket. He takes out his gun and salutes to the sun, running down the hill until he drops it.

I take nine of them, and talk seven. That's a problem.
Sometimes I such know what asperations build me to be, but they dissapear and I'm left with...
Melted ice. And that's no good. But I'll just have to freeze it all myself. Sometimes I care and sometimes I don't. Think I was born wrong.

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