MY HEAD FEELS LIKE THE INSIDE OF A PLACE WITH A HEAD IN IT.

TODAY. The only day I've ever had that was 3/17/13. And this is John. John Lennon.

I want to draw him now XD

I am tired, and have little to say, tragic, really XD
JOHN COULD THINK OF SOMETHING. I SHOULD TOO.


One day, a man was there. He went to morning at work every day, 5 to 9. Average, normal, boring was he, if like he was you. Depends on are you who, if you look at really it. Voice sang him, guitar played him. The pencil wrote on him, the paper using him as its inspiration for medium. But didn't he understand normal, and it didn't him. Laughed he at the moon, teaching it to laugh back. The slits in a thing such cutted, like a place for buttons, not the snappable ones, like his thin grin, crept across his face as a laugh found shelter in his throat, waiting to emerge at a humorous glance of the tongue. Sarcastic was him, becoming confortable in the time passing, but idealism seeked to emerge. The brown eyes held you with a stare, as the colors danced across your concious brow, thinking of a king, and all the energy around. You might shutter, for dirty embodies a spot on your shirt. The dentist only shot the lanky one a sour wink, lucky one might consider the sad one. I might not. The man was there and became like the poets of all time past, like the lonely songbird on a dark night, maybe lost in another world, but maybe not. Knows who?
I honestly don't know.