Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Refreacted

This is a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy o a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a coy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy o a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a journal entry I used to imagine when I was 7 years old. In my memory, it said:

"Frankfort is a long way from New Zealand. That's why, when you close your windows at night and you feel the strange sensation that you just ingested a living entity, you realize that we can't be together. I used to by you cigarettes and then gum so that your father wouldn't know you were smoking. I held you up on the carousel so you could pretend you would actually amount to anything. But now, in the gray light of this dressing room, we push our lips together and hope for the best."

Put your bones back together. We got though this, just like I said we would. Doubt me again and I'll kill you for real.

-Rock Man On Off

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