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post #67
bio: tim
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5/17/2005
00:12

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'I've Got Something Brand New (for that ass)'
Watch How the Zombies Scream (it's the crack)...
'tis Spring and your Mothers Cry
Mama Sang Tenor
Not Even Close to Being on Topic
To gather or collect swiftly and unceremoniously; grab

A Mutual Understanding of Destruction and Greed





So infertile and so incestuous this. I have seen several of you naked, made out with some male, some female, wished to make out and see most of the rest naked, slept naked unawares in beds and on couches and in general coveted the lives of each and every one of you. This is my sin, coven. Now that my DNA is behaving I have lost the sense of need. Bourbon would be welcome and despised now. Just having finished Burroughs discourse on drinking. A., not William S., but then his need was not to drink. My typing is improving I feel. The idea of destruction is always running below the boards. How can one build without first tearing down. Self destruction, now that is what we are talking about. If the world doesn't have the time or the balls to do it, than I will have to do it for myself. Pay for the flesh they say. Pay for the option of breathing, the choice we make every day to wake and to eat air and to kill the DNA who just wants to make it to the light of day. The old man is asked how is it he can get up every day, day after day, with the same life and the same problems and wake up and do it all over again. How does he do it. Habit, he answers. I do it until someone tells me not to anymore. I like the opposite answer in solution to the problem. The irrational. Delete all that. I love to delete. My secret. The goal is to never reach the summit. I can't imagine the disappointment which must overcome the rare person who successfully scales Mount Everest, lives, and then scales back down and lives. There is no greater physical challenge left for them on this planet. They must now set their sites on Mars. Nothing they do with their bodies will come close to that single accomplishment. My own scaling days well behind me, I can now only muse. The real hero then is the fallen climber. He or she who almost makes it to the peak, makes it to the peak which is right before the last peak: the penultimate. The last breath of conscious air as they fall asleep in the cold. They will know not the joy and heartache of reaching the top, yet they will know the pain of the outstretched arm reaching for it. Like I know. A dry attempt of a cigarette rolled and resting in my lips. I must look like a 12 year old trying that first one. The burning tobacco sucking out your life as you suck out its. Placation.
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