I am not a ball of holy fire yet.
I need ore. I need stumps to cut off and to hew from them my sick sculptures. If I face it I bet I could bet on that shit. I need to codify my own personal details.
Here's the ugly beersoaked entrails of the idea: the idea is true.
wise another drunk winter another wise winter another cold drunk
or drink like a gentleman
I could fuck you now bitch hard for a hour: I said that to the green winter sky. I am the ether of lost friends whipping white on the roadway. I am still out of control. This'll all get on the Internet because I'm the whip, the whip, already
Mott: