novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- sage advice from my hungry the heron (i feel like i can take what he's written and think that he's left me this last bit of advice before finally lashing tumbleweeds together and dune-buggying down to central california.) High, Lonesome, Sound. "And cross our hearts half-hoping/That we could both quit smoking/And kick the booze and blow . . . for a while"--Eric Bachman Most of them want to use you. Talked to an old mutual friend just now about you in the three-D. Not divorce, not Dallas, not the heads of country gentlemen planted on spikes that adorn the perimeter of your sacred rustic estate. If I led you down here just to die, I hope the ether will spare me and I can get to the heaven you'll always be. If your form lacked all grace, would you still deposit yourself in kilometers-deep wretched tundra? Why do you lift the cloven hooves of the egos that trample you to these new beautiful shreds? You are so wonderful. I miss all your sad lovely elephants; please watch my dog while I record a classic album and lose my mind. Oh sweet friend, pull through this mellee of destruction and nonsense, for the beautiful girl that you are. Please kick that jagged graveyard Diva of yours; she was mine for too long, and I want you to belong to none but the God that is you. You don't need anyone but yourself. You don't need. 6:26 pm - 01.19.06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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