rotten squishy pussy fuckers
I would much rather write dreams and fantasy world, then personal battles and afflictions. Who wants to read my issues and problems, when instead they could be reading about the magic I concoct in my head? The make believe scenarios I create about random people gracing me throughout my day.
Everyone has their issues, and after a while, they begin to run into each other and sound the same to me. Catastrophic love, depression, boredom, addiction, greed, merciless hate for things not understood,daily misfortunes,plights and hardships, poverty, maniacal bouts with ridiculous situations, plain ignorance and raving lunacy.
I would much rather hear tales of winged saviors and mushrooms that start converstaions in the rain, when the wind blows form the north, and rainbows promise to transpire.
A child stumbles on a wild enemy and kills it by making it a friend, using a song he heard from the talking fungus. Music tames the savage beast.
If my song is sweet enough can I extract the maladies listed above? If I create a world of rapture, can mankind escape his ailments if just for those minutes in which he reads of my paradisio?
To heal through beauty, rather then dwell in pain. To escape and find things never dreamt by another soul and be capable of text so rich that I might pass my dreams through to another lucidly and certainly...
I would also like to stop begining all my sentences with prepostitions.
Everyone has their issues, and after a while, they begin to run into each other and sound the same to me. Catastrophic love, depression, boredom, addiction, greed, merciless hate for things not understood,daily misfortunes,plights and hardships, poverty, maniacal bouts with ridiculous situations, plain ignorance and raving lunacy.
I would much rather hear tales of winged saviors and mushrooms that start converstaions in the rain, when the wind blows form the north, and rainbows promise to transpire.
A child stumbles on a wild enemy and kills it by making it a friend, using a song he heard from the talking fungus. Music tames the savage beast.
If my song is sweet enough can I extract the maladies listed above? If I create a world of rapture, can mankind escape his ailments if just for those minutes in which he reads of my paradisio?
To heal through beauty, rather then dwell in pain. To escape and find things never dreamt by another soul and be capable of text so rich that I might pass my dreams through to another lucidly and certainly...
I would also like to stop begining all my sentences with prepostitions.