Super 8 - 1974 from Jarbas Agnelli on Vimeo.
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4 years ago
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Note 8: Sung Of Gaps by Tucker Sampson
A lovely retelling of his trip to San Francisco. As only Tucker could fully understand it.
How could I not remember, those hard standing under the sunlight, and after it flowed, out. Sleep following, only a small foot of the journey, many plants not watered yet. Living through congo drums, the tell of motions. This is how get prepared to fuck.
This city is not absolutely responsible for anxiety, responsible
Mind.
A few turns, missed idea of location, covet maps, the hero pervails. Asian many outside smoke a cigarette, and walks by so children who look like video games. Start the action now
Let own only need, then be still
— —
Blue white gray,
white off, the shortest.
As mind let build. Voice arrive to say speak, not for smog drags.
Shapes and people. Short built its own life.
— —
Stone been here longer than the trees, wait us both out. Wading into high water. With the balance, and shifting of water in the masonic jar, I see a new eye into time travel. The who of pronoun, like a transformer.
Telegraph Hill is a monograph its own shadow.
Being clever I go flat.
— —
The morning reappears, just like sun in suprise. Who could actually know, who could?
Facts remain it’s not actually morning, nearly ten past when the sun is supposidly highest in the sky. I open the window, the eye hole of Green Street. Wind, the in blow. 1255 Kearney. Yesterday those huge stair, clothing on it without a person.
This view, open, waterway with sail boat. Do what they made. Do what they made.
The back most ground, is hill. Days cannot get the forcast until, box-spring of a bed. Out somewhere. I copped a nod on a foton.
Green and white flatest house, see, I, now.
Roll as guerillas, seen three people walking dogs or dogs walking three people. They said it was prose without rules, whoopty shit. Snap cracks whip. Maybe the ocean.
Last night was Thai. I ate the Red Ocean. JD said he never saw anything like that.
Just like eating a tire. Taste, good. Labored, snack cracks whip. Water lemoned. Red Ocean, picture: Kreton of the sea, prawn shrimp calamari— somewhere, and eggplant.
Wake up hill words after eating, a man or woman one day will figure out the world, one day one day. As I know I’m, not God. Or Buddha.
Let it detach, slip into funk music, a city finds its own culture. Said Frisco is a city of transcient. Almost a city without history. Close.
Keep digging, Watson. Throw into bird what had politician of rooftop, drop the eye looking down old man waiting deli. With doubt anyone can sag. A gray building blue round its window eyes. Forest of missed color. Parking lots blunder. Swung him asunder: that was almost, Hart Crane. Build a tribute with all forks.
I just had breakfast. Not pickles and barrels: nearly, Clark Coolidge. What do I take out of my bag lighten load, the sun ducks of nobos.
A multitude of colors are brought forth from the city’s landscape, the cityscape. Through out’s finger shout.
Hey, Suzy, how are you?
Came out later into wild cries. Run up quick under the guise of quite, nobody knows how well it would work. We had only trusted for plans to be let down, by the help. Could only stand to let the shadow walk home that late at night.
Coffee.
— —
Sun ducks behind tree lines. Constraints not balance it has to sense, straight whom?
The abandoned building is filled forwards, hazard and lost by a numb tongue, a case of mistaken identity of displaced people. Lone building fogged with flat craft, is filled forwards gripping reality. Chant of cause, not loss of the gross waste of drunk love. Service displace by disfigured manner and ill-fated forms. I am everything I am against. You know how to link puzzles back together, whether or you are willing to admit this is another thing, entire. A constant why.
Staff of country line never knowing the bad sheltered kid, born of chalk marks
Markings these element are the dust. Remember, this is human life I love you.
Yes, back there again. Why did I have to drink the blue book, this could barely stand an understanding. What is his angle. Look at the role domainant magnets we have made this mathematics.
The kid need all the more, not to waste out just move forward, sublime superceding life times.
The row of tanks. Tents automatic, it is just a game of sound a likes. We have long tried to believe subjects are the magic numbers. Always probe deeper. Not watching baseball. The old meet and creep.
Yes two who we are
Car noises all night
We still can collaborate
When is the whole community ready to discuss, mug and disguist. Ravige form meaning I believe, leaving myself show.
— —
The answer always comes to you eventually and myself. Girl next door table red lipstick, reading Walden. How close is it really. No right or wrong on the left or right. Not enough sisters and brothers.
— —
Ability to steal words from someone else, that for the sake of itself. Art for art’s sake: poetry for poetry’s sake.
Moving outward. Collage. Found meaning. Measure, and more.
A carbomb, I don’t see.
— —
Told whatever, it wasn’t what it was, not really. As the dark shine, those spotlights streetlighting hill parked cars.
Hey, Suzy, how are you? I am fine, how are you? Wanting I would, to know her. Two, one door doors on that side, of the street. The man house closed the corner grocery store.
Slow strum with the window closed. License plate. I think we are part. What movie was that stolen from? Who could?
— —
Those lungs we could rest for— yes that we could believe in forest of needle who strolls morning as a greasy spoon. Is that really his name? Exist 14, last night a walk up stone step hill. Right me sentence, something to teach. Does anyone know death’s birthday? Contained by self, celebrating.
Clarinet floats the night sky, learned what is, from the bearded oracle. From the table rising left left then right, down out the door by coupons. A space of completely different circuitry.
In some future or past morning, I woke up got together and dressed, shoes find keys, turn off the alarm. Spools of cloverfields. Flip-flops I usually wear. Sauntering out into the hall of the apartment building, bikes aren’t folding, I lock the door even if there, no need. This form of life needs coffee. The blue door is locked. Short hall out door of broken and downstair. Exit 13. A third door open or nearly finished of broke. Left less than a quater; the manner feet walk. Then left again as could. Exist 12. That is morning.
Night now has become flacks, the proper it was wanted. A spellbinding voice fits into chunks this eve. Rights of stolen spectrum light. Voice still lerks, tell is things, it is things. All these street corners: Crescent and Rush, Green and Kearney, Broadway and Market, Hall and Prospect. The road corners.
Exist again. This different master plans, wonder model, the people. More prayers waking states. Televisions great syncopation, as emotions electrical. Gaurded by the wholly un-sunburned flip-flops of future. Classic forward. Recycling modal images, isn’t that his thing.
— —
We have expert reason. Only that of the bearded oracle. Cream and peach colored tables/chairs at radical coffee. Well brewed. I don’t have to know. As split out of radio the webbing could be perfect wishing, the unfinished. Abandoned couch of the sidewalk.
— —
Morning often seems as story told once more, changing with the links of moments, strange never repeating itself. The surfboards stand over an ocean hill. Waves with their white crests.
Known by sweet under a twist just brushing back; the hair slide on the grain, usually uncruding cracks.
A white haired man reading the newspaper sits on the corner ready as people pass, watched by a dog. Over there other people know. Same oning, to hang. Green street watching lying on its back. A gull sees. A guy wearing jeans and a windbreak walks up one of the many hills. Blue building on the diagonal has geriatric ornaments holding to the buildings front fascade; Its trim looks between blue and green. Could be both I don’t know; honestly that of lower planks looks green, more green; a jaunt closer to the potted plants and trees out front.
Further away individual a tree, dances to songs of wind. The songs told, the songs told.
Sleet notes of car and plane engines. Music often adds in the multiplication tables.
It is a good thing I remember to remember.
— —
Deep into woods
For hike
Nonce know of day-mare
Which become hallow stalk
Cancerous mind wound to car sickness
Directly
Drink this
Be as they stray
Wide open world
Standing far above cloud lines
Not a glumb loss
A winged culture
Breathe in breathe out
Drink water it will make you better
Through rocks at metal trashcan
Shows master pulling through knowledge
Remember
There is no negative distance from zero
Anarchy
Tin pan road ready to wake up and bang
As this was always a dream
With time the story dulls I get distracted
It was Muir Woods
But after Muir Beach
Standing far above the clouds
Beautiful girls beautiful girls
— —
Focus is often determined by destination
Eyes with some kind of commitment
Good coffee is good heated
— —
Progress constricts
I go onto something else
Some line of meaning is lost somewhere
No farms no food
She drinks her coffee quickly
Full-time is matter of other kinds
A new day can be a kind of new perspective. Enough distractions make a square.
Dawn makes cerebral movements like coffee. That which wakes us up, can be to much, to put us to sleep. Has had an upset stomach weeks ago.
I am time addicted, to the good in men. The good in men, time addicted. I am addicted to time, to the good in women. Got to help this and I don’t even own a watch.
Watching me in a starlit sky I wake up. I wake, up. I up the wake. Wearing an old wool suit a nice suit and I wake up.
In a box the park. Know the trashcan of the hollow ashcan. Where I don’t know where, here—the park. Just a park. The suit is brown. Find a newspaper, this is still a city. It must be somewhere in myself. Realizing the rest of my body is in a cardboard box, I crawl out. I crawl out. Walk of to a bench through a bush green leaf. Newpaper on the ground says. A bum a bench I talk to can’t help. He smoke a cigarette. We talk about the book of Job. Some commissioner is healing and he has the power.
— —
A hundred door car, the newest way to move round metropolis, battered by a new world. Malignant syntax.
How out there is made, self of mode, has lost the track. I go wrong direction of road wind. With camera, I can see field but are actually hill believe in themselves, tightly held to narrow pathes. Sweet simple.
The narrows. Hills explain to roll into themselves, like a great burden of all time being releashed. Its spots are tops of pine trees. Begun to live.
Certain exists color different, not about the lines, bushes have overhang long linger beyond well of what is expect, to high brow to actually vibrate, a conversation which begins with a realization; and
Larger number animals
See our same views:
You need to learn the talk,
Blocks of connected apartment
Buildings on Grant.
— —
We can always more than dare in the chance of living, was just right, they there before, I got some color today, those other lives how they so often meet on cross-roads, a culture of living together, action to make essence feel strong, stronger.
An entire city never trying to be more of itself, its not paranoia at night or self-conscious under energies refracted and reflected in life, the conditioned human, the human condition. A mass made into the sum which is ecology.
This could be answer why cost less than humility, rent, or scientology.
A city, energy, held down individual lights. Over flat fragments.
A man’s old brother heads
Downtown for poker with friends
Needs the money as it
Only half needs him
The other brother orbits
Bars and mossy clubs and
I sleep night of roads
— —
Wind far distance but feels ill. Call in. They just like the roof because its lower. The songs written must know its neighborhood.
Influence is control by the contour of the language, late or simple, payphone steel colored gray wall, perfect brown couch. Again grocery opens, elected spire sight she said it looks like a huge penis.
Song walk to a diverge eating of place, red head beauty waitress. Perfect senses with eggs, pancakes, and ham.
— —
This place, the Mission is dumpy but delightful. Building elevates its graffiti skin. North Beach graffiti is vandalized. The swamp tatters. Books in the right hall at a diligent price.
In a moment of digression I decide to go to Mo’s. Palm tree vertebrae Dolores. Why do those pigeons remind me of New England College?
What a place this Monday brought me to… Homosexuals, Chicanos, and hipsters.
Smells of chicken lost again, she dyed her hair. How do those drugs get into prison. A lot of sex being sold on Broadway, the whole city, chicks and dicks rolled in with Coca-Cola the fucking American dream.
bums a cigarette
people without names
or faces
pictures pictures.
a winding down…
i could talk to them
peopled americana.
— —
Night last watching prison film, that is good you are running out, nothing I need to depend upon. Say what they will, make them, made by them. Then a designer living. You know what they say, fuck ‘em young.
I decide not to wait line, at the greasy spoon. The icy water is arrived already. Coffee with one sugar, and creme. Modal jazz, obviously it was greasy spoon quality coffee.
Eggs, inside them are tomatos and scallions. Then potatos, also with scallions, again somehow, whole wheat toast. Out back into the sunny morning, no one complains of that sunny disposition. Man walking by wearing baggy paints carries a boombox Samba Rap. Someone plug of another wiretap.
The restored gash of slanted windows with graffiti hold to the wall. A man tries to sneeze the apex of nowhere. Curtains shut the alarm of wind waves.
This isn't the best town for what we're doing. Too many other things to pull the crowds away.
—Kenneth Rexroth
I bob through the liquid of people moving down Valencia. Transience manner of existance in this city standing near the ocean of the northern Califonia shore. The biggest hole is the missing commuter mind, adaptation. I move my hair to a completely new hour of wait. It nearly sings.
Pulling off inside the shift. It is the usually silence, an action that gives thanks.
— —
Things happen sometimes. Leaning single, back the couch; Mission street group of migrants. Sense as they must to live. Four blocks down a dresser imagined to be room-sized is left on the road. A raspy look of hull. In a parking lot a waitress on her break smokes a cigarette. This is half of what people want. I need to find someone to supply the water.
How could I not remember, those hard standing under the sunlight, and after it flowed, out. Sleep following, only a small foot of the journey, many plants not watered yet. Living through congo drums, the tell of motions. This is how get prepared to fuck.
This city is not absolutely responsible for anxiety, responsible
Mind.
A few turns, missed idea of location, covet maps, the hero pervails. Asian many outside smoke a cigarette, and walks by so children who look like video games. Start the action now
Let own only need, then be still
— —
Blue white gray,
white off, the shortest.
As mind let build. Voice arrive to say speak, not for smog drags.
Shapes and people. Short built its own life.
— —
Stone been here longer than the trees, wait us both out. Wading into high water. With the balance, and shifting of water in the masonic jar, I see a new eye into time travel. The who of pronoun, like a transformer.
Telegraph Hill is a monograph its own shadow.
Being clever I go flat.
— —
The morning reappears, just like sun in suprise. Who could actually know, who could?
Facts remain it’s not actually morning, nearly ten past when the sun is supposidly highest in the sky. I open the window, the eye hole of Green Street. Wind, the in blow. 1255 Kearney. Yesterday those huge stair, clothing on it without a person.
This view, open, waterway with sail boat. Do what they made. Do what they made.
The back most ground, is hill. Days cannot get the forcast until, box-spring of a bed. Out somewhere. I copped a nod on a foton.
Green and white flatest house, see, I, now.
Roll as guerillas, seen three people walking dogs or dogs walking three people. They said it was prose without rules, whoopty shit. Snap cracks whip. Maybe the ocean.
Last night was Thai. I ate the Red Ocean. JD said he never saw anything like that.
Just like eating a tire. Taste, good. Labored, snack cracks whip. Water lemoned. Red Ocean, picture: Kreton of the sea, prawn shrimp calamari— somewhere, and eggplant.
Wake up hill words after eating, a man or woman one day will figure out the world, one day one day. As I know I’m, not God. Or Buddha.
Let it detach, slip into funk music, a city finds its own culture. Said Frisco is a city of transcient. Almost a city without history. Close.
Keep digging, Watson. Throw into bird what had politician of rooftop, drop the eye looking down old man waiting deli. With doubt anyone can sag. A gray building blue round its window eyes. Forest of missed color. Parking lots blunder. Swung him asunder: that was almost, Hart Crane. Build a tribute with all forks.
I just had breakfast. Not pickles and barrels: nearly, Clark Coolidge. What do I take out of my bag lighten load, the sun ducks of nobos.
A multitude of colors are brought forth from the city’s landscape, the cityscape. Through out’s finger shout.
Hey, Suzy, how are you?
Came out later into wild cries. Run up quick under the guise of quite, nobody knows how well it would work. We had only trusted for plans to be let down, by the help. Could only stand to let the shadow walk home that late at night.
Coffee.
— —
Sun ducks behind tree lines. Constraints not balance it has to sense, straight whom?
The abandoned building is filled forwards, hazard and lost by a numb tongue, a case of mistaken identity of displaced people. Lone building fogged with flat craft, is filled forwards gripping reality. Chant of cause, not loss of the gross waste of drunk love. Service displace by disfigured manner and ill-fated forms. I am everything I am against. You know how to link puzzles back together, whether or you are willing to admit this is another thing, entire. A constant why.
Staff of country line never knowing the bad sheltered kid, born of chalk marks
Markings these element are the dust. Remember, this is human life I love you.
Yes, back there again. Why did I have to drink the blue book, this could barely stand an understanding. What is his angle. Look at the role domainant magnets we have made this mathematics.
The kid need all the more, not to waste out just move forward, sublime superceding life times.
The row of tanks. Tents automatic, it is just a game of sound a likes. We have long tried to believe subjects are the magic numbers. Always probe deeper. Not watching baseball. The old meet and creep.
Yes two who we are
Car noises all night
We still can collaborate
When is the whole community ready to discuss, mug and disguist. Ravige form meaning I believe, leaving myself show.
— —
The answer always comes to you eventually and myself. Girl next door table red lipstick, reading Walden. How close is it really. No right or wrong on the left or right. Not enough sisters and brothers.
— —
Ability to steal words from someone else, that for the sake of itself. Art for art’s sake: poetry for poetry’s sake.
Moving outward. Collage. Found meaning. Measure, and more.
A carbomb, I don’t see.
— —
Told whatever, it wasn’t what it was, not really. As the dark shine, those spotlights streetlighting hill parked cars.
Hey, Suzy, how are you? I am fine, how are you? Wanting I would, to know her. Two, one door doors on that side, of the street. The man house closed the corner grocery store.
Slow strum with the window closed. License plate. I think we are part. What movie was that stolen from? Who could?
— —
Those lungs we could rest for— yes that we could believe in forest of needle who strolls morning as a greasy spoon. Is that really his name? Exist 14, last night a walk up stone step hill. Right me sentence, something to teach. Does anyone know death’s birthday? Contained by self, celebrating.
Clarinet floats the night sky, learned what is, from the bearded oracle. From the table rising left left then right, down out the door by coupons. A space of completely different circuitry.
In some future or past morning, I woke up got together and dressed, shoes find keys, turn off the alarm. Spools of cloverfields. Flip-flops I usually wear. Sauntering out into the hall of the apartment building, bikes aren’t folding, I lock the door even if there, no need. This form of life needs coffee. The blue door is locked. Short hall out door of broken and downstair. Exit 13. A third door open or nearly finished of broke. Left less than a quater; the manner feet walk. Then left again as could. Exist 12. That is morning.
Night now has become flacks, the proper it was wanted. A spellbinding voice fits into chunks this eve. Rights of stolen spectrum light. Voice still lerks, tell is things, it is things. All these street corners: Crescent and Rush, Green and Kearney, Broadway and Market, Hall and Prospect. The road corners.
Exist again. This different master plans, wonder model, the people. More prayers waking states. Televisions great syncopation, as emotions electrical. Gaurded by the wholly un-sunburned flip-flops of future. Classic forward. Recycling modal images, isn’t that his thing.
— —
We have expert reason. Only that of the bearded oracle. Cream and peach colored tables/chairs at radical coffee. Well brewed. I don’t have to know. As split out of radio the webbing could be perfect wishing, the unfinished. Abandoned couch of the sidewalk.
— —
Morning often seems as story told once more, changing with the links of moments, strange never repeating itself. The surfboards stand over an ocean hill. Waves with their white crests.
Known by sweet under a twist just brushing back; the hair slide on the grain, usually uncruding cracks.
A white haired man reading the newspaper sits on the corner ready as people pass, watched by a dog. Over there other people know. Same oning, to hang. Green street watching lying on its back. A gull sees. A guy wearing jeans and a windbreak walks up one of the many hills. Blue building on the diagonal has geriatric ornaments holding to the buildings front fascade; Its trim looks between blue and green. Could be both I don’t know; honestly that of lower planks looks green, more green; a jaunt closer to the potted plants and trees out front.
Further away individual a tree, dances to songs of wind. The songs told, the songs told.
Sleet notes of car and plane engines. Music often adds in the multiplication tables.
It is a good thing I remember to remember.
— —
Deep into woods
For hike
Nonce know of day-mare
Which become hallow stalk
Cancerous mind wound to car sickness
Directly
Drink this
Be as they stray
Wide open world
Standing far above cloud lines
Not a glumb loss
A winged culture
Breathe in breathe out
Drink water it will make you better
Through rocks at metal trashcan
Shows master pulling through knowledge
Remember
There is no negative distance from zero
Anarchy
Tin pan road ready to wake up and bang
As this was always a dream
With time the story dulls I get distracted
It was Muir Woods
But after Muir Beach
Standing far above the clouds
Beautiful girls beautiful girls
— —
Focus is often determined by destination
Eyes with some kind of commitment
Good coffee is good heated
— —
Progress constricts
I go onto something else
Some line of meaning is lost somewhere
No farms no food
She drinks her coffee quickly
Full-time is matter of other kinds
A new day can be a kind of new perspective. Enough distractions make a square.
Dawn makes cerebral movements like coffee. That which wakes us up, can be to much, to put us to sleep. Has had an upset stomach weeks ago.
I am time addicted, to the good in men. The good in men, time addicted. I am addicted to time, to the good in women. Got to help this and I don’t even own a watch.
Watching me in a starlit sky I wake up. I wake, up. I up the wake. Wearing an old wool suit a nice suit and I wake up.
In a box the park. Know the trashcan of the hollow ashcan. Where I don’t know where, here—the park. Just a park. The suit is brown. Find a newspaper, this is still a city. It must be somewhere in myself. Realizing the rest of my body is in a cardboard box, I crawl out. I crawl out. Walk of to a bench through a bush green leaf. Newpaper on the ground says. A bum a bench I talk to can’t help. He smoke a cigarette. We talk about the book of Job. Some commissioner is healing and he has the power.
— —
A hundred door car, the newest way to move round metropolis, battered by a new world. Malignant syntax.
How out there is made, self of mode, has lost the track. I go wrong direction of road wind. With camera, I can see field but are actually hill believe in themselves, tightly held to narrow pathes. Sweet simple.
The narrows. Hills explain to roll into themselves, like a great burden of all time being releashed. Its spots are tops of pine trees. Begun to live.
Certain exists color different, not about the lines, bushes have overhang long linger beyond well of what is expect, to high brow to actually vibrate, a conversation which begins with a realization; and
Larger number animals
See our same views:
You need to learn the talk,
Blocks of connected apartment
Buildings on Grant.
— —
We can always more than dare in the chance of living, was just right, they there before, I got some color today, those other lives how they so often meet on cross-roads, a culture of living together, action to make essence feel strong, stronger.
An entire city never trying to be more of itself, its not paranoia at night or self-conscious under energies refracted and reflected in life, the conditioned human, the human condition. A mass made into the sum which is ecology.
This could be answer why cost less than humility, rent, or scientology.
A city, energy, held down individual lights. Over flat fragments.
A man’s old brother heads
Downtown for poker with friends
Needs the money as it
Only half needs him
The other brother orbits
Bars and mossy clubs and
I sleep night of roads
— —
Wind far distance but feels ill. Call in. They just like the roof because its lower. The songs written must know its neighborhood.
Influence is control by the contour of the language, late or simple, payphone steel colored gray wall, perfect brown couch. Again grocery opens, elected spire sight she said it looks like a huge penis.
Song walk to a diverge eating of place, red head beauty waitress. Perfect senses with eggs, pancakes, and ham.
— —
This place, the Mission is dumpy but delightful. Building elevates its graffiti skin. North Beach graffiti is vandalized. The swamp tatters. Books in the right hall at a diligent price.
In a moment of digression I decide to go to Mo’s. Palm tree vertebrae Dolores. Why do those pigeons remind me of New England College?
What a place this Monday brought me to… Homosexuals, Chicanos, and hipsters.
Smells of chicken lost again, she dyed her hair. How do those drugs get into prison. A lot of sex being sold on Broadway, the whole city, chicks and dicks rolled in with Coca-Cola the fucking American dream.
bums a cigarette
people without names
or faces
pictures pictures.
a winding down…
i could talk to them
peopled americana.
— —
Night last watching prison film, that is good you are running out, nothing I need to depend upon. Say what they will, make them, made by them. Then a designer living. You know what they say, fuck ‘em young.
I decide not to wait line, at the greasy spoon. The icy water is arrived already. Coffee with one sugar, and creme. Modal jazz, obviously it was greasy spoon quality coffee.
Eggs, inside them are tomatos and scallions. Then potatos, also with scallions, again somehow, whole wheat toast. Out back into the sunny morning, no one complains of that sunny disposition. Man walking by wearing baggy paints carries a boombox Samba Rap. Someone plug of another wiretap.
The restored gash of slanted windows with graffiti hold to the wall. A man tries to sneeze the apex of nowhere. Curtains shut the alarm of wind waves.
This isn't the best town for what we're doing. Too many other things to pull the crowds away.
—Kenneth Rexroth
I bob through the liquid of people moving down Valencia. Transience manner of existance in this city standing near the ocean of the northern Califonia shore. The biggest hole is the missing commuter mind, adaptation. I move my hair to a completely new hour of wait. It nearly sings.
Pulling off inside the shift. It is the usually silence, an action that gives thanks.
— —
Things happen sometimes. Leaning single, back the couch; Mission street group of migrants. Sense as they must to live. Four blocks down a dresser imagined to be room-sized is left on the road. A raspy look of hull. In a parking lot a waitress on her break smokes a cigarette. This is half of what people want. I need to find someone to supply the water.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
While I was Away
Funny video of a simple miscommunication that turned sour REAL fast. The maker shares the JD name and the similarities don't end there- my summer of 2007 wasn't much different, minus the Europe part.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
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