February 2012
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I love everything.
Everything went according to plan, and now I feel like everyone I know should receive a basket full of whatever they like.
Now I am going to go make a quilt from these nicotine patches and go to sleep in December of 2072.
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I'm trying to read.
thanNINININININININININININthroughNINININ NINININININININININININININININININININININ NINININININININININININININININININININININ NINININININININININININININININININININININ
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That person
Who must chop their metal into a bunch of little categorical pieces and his/her taste devolves into elitist triangles, choruses, and experimental brain stems wagging about the things.
I cannot argue what music is.
I meekly present the theory that they have found their last drink of nuance in the stuff they got tired of. I severely doubt that anyone gets a fat off of thinking/stating how...
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I am convinced today that I come from another planet.