Accept The Next Proposition You Hear.
In this place yesterday never existed.
I always said I'd agree to any request and it is only then, upon the barrage of letters strapped to decapitated lawn gnome heads and grenaded to my room's center, that I could prove the validity of those words. It was beautiful you know. I hadn't ridden a bike since June of 2002 when my eyes strayed to our northern neighbor. The cold air filled my lungs with fiberglass and ceased the function of digit upon digit. And in the center of that grassy jungle you showed me the alter of your conquest. I didn't expect it. The way the candlelight bounced and smeared your features. And even in the darkened chill. The grass wet beneath. The dogs with laser beams implanted about their throats. I didn't fail to notice how the assorted consumptions maintained the organic, vegan feel that I so love. Not that this should cause surprize to break my forehead to ridges. I just can't ever seem to get over the ideology that anyone would pay attention for more than a millisecond. It was nice. You are nice.
On the 20th I attended the Blood Brothers, Pretty Girls Make Graves, IQU show at The Showbox. IQU is stuck in that tiny space, that lobe nestled under this mat of hair, and won't remove. I should just go buy the CD and cease this internal racket. The show saddened me. All of the pre-pubescents lunged at the vocals, the guitar, not reaching bass nor drums, in their feeble attempt to remove hair from head, clothing from person, skin from the skeletons. I'll never get back those Doctor! Doctor! days. Those Raise The Fucking Flags!!! are gone for good. But I want them so badly it hurts in my core.
I am now the CEO of a record label. Take A Snake Records to be perfectly direct. Our first release was nailed to the world at the CD release party last Saturday. Graphic design via my own trembling fingertips. Hospital Haunts. Give them a listen. They are sure to make you gyrate.
The accordion has been placed in my palms to give eccentricity to our band. I don't understand the myriad of buttons. This isn't playing keys anymore. It's something far removed. Or maybe not that far. I just don't understand it all as of yet. Such a noisy little contraption. I'm not used to spewing this sort of noise anymore.
I always said I'd agree to any request and it is only then, upon the barrage of letters strapped to decapitated lawn gnome heads and grenaded to my room's center, that I could prove the validity of those words. It was beautiful you know. I hadn't ridden a bike since June of 2002 when my eyes strayed to our northern neighbor. The cold air filled my lungs with fiberglass and ceased the function of digit upon digit. And in the center of that grassy jungle you showed me the alter of your conquest. I didn't expect it. The way the candlelight bounced and smeared your features. And even in the darkened chill. The grass wet beneath. The dogs with laser beams implanted about their throats. I didn't fail to notice how the assorted consumptions maintained the organic, vegan feel that I so love. Not that this should cause surprize to break my forehead to ridges. I just can't ever seem to get over the ideology that anyone would pay attention for more than a millisecond. It was nice. You are nice.
On the 20th I attended the Blood Brothers, Pretty Girls Make Graves, IQU show at The Showbox. IQU is stuck in that tiny space, that lobe nestled under this mat of hair, and won't remove. I should just go buy the CD and cease this internal racket. The show saddened me. All of the pre-pubescents lunged at the vocals, the guitar, not reaching bass nor drums, in their feeble attempt to remove hair from head, clothing from person, skin from the skeletons. I'll never get back those Doctor! Doctor! days. Those Raise The Fucking Flags!!! are gone for good. But I want them so badly it hurts in my core.
I am now the CEO of a record label. Take A Snake Records to be perfectly direct. Our first release was nailed to the world at the CD release party last Saturday. Graphic design via my own trembling fingertips. Hospital Haunts. Give them a listen. They are sure to make you gyrate.
The accordion has been placed in my palms to give eccentricity to our band. I don't understand the myriad of buttons. This isn't playing keys anymore. It's something far removed. Or maybe not that far. I just don't understand it all as of yet. Such a noisy little contraption. I'm not used to spewing this sort of noise anymore.