"Somehow in this twisted world...
I'm really doing fine
You could say this peace of mind
Was never really mine,
But I feel fine..."
A couple of weeks ago in a shop I heard a song I liked and the singer sounded just like the girl from K's Choice. All I could remember about the lyrics was something about 'oh everything's fekked but I'm fine' and 'cucify the human race'. It was a lost cause frankly. My neurons had a brainwave - look up K's Choice on Amazon and see what else people bought! Pure genius. I discovered the girl from K's Choice had a solo album out, and that song was on it, so no wonder it sounded like her =P
Today I discovered that running down the road and back and breathing in lungfuls of freezing air does not make my internal organs happy. My lungs get icicles in their little air sacks and I cough in a wonderfully alarming consumptive manner for half an hour after. But it does mean I make up strange insane romance sagas to explain why I'm consumptive and living in a garret, the model and muse for my (disowned aristo) artist lover, who's mad bad and dangerous to know. (Tale also contains absinthe, love, duels, insanity, death, art, horrible relatives, hints of the supernatural etc etc.) It amused me at any rate.
It is almost time for me to return to the frozen wasteland that is the bookshop...
You could say this peace of mind
Was never really mine,
But I feel fine..."
A couple of weeks ago in a shop I heard a song I liked and the singer sounded just like the girl from K's Choice. All I could remember about the lyrics was something about 'oh everything's fekked but I'm fine' and 'cucify the human race'. It was a lost cause frankly. My neurons had a brainwave - look up K's Choice on Amazon and see what else people bought! Pure genius. I discovered the girl from K's Choice had a solo album out, and that song was on it, so no wonder it sounded like her =P
Today I discovered that running down the road and back and breathing in lungfuls of freezing air does not make my internal organs happy. My lungs get icicles in their little air sacks and I cough in a wonderfully alarming consumptive manner for half an hour after. But it does mean I make up strange insane romance sagas to explain why I'm consumptive and living in a garret, the model and muse for my (disowned aristo) artist lover, who's mad bad and dangerous to know. (Tale also contains absinthe, love, duels, insanity, death, art, horrible relatives, hints of the supernatural etc etc.) It amused me at any rate.
It is almost time for me to return to the frozen wasteland that is the bookshop...