--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed
I sat here, here behind my desk - hungry, wrought with exhaustion - reading the sunflower sutra.
Jesus and his lawyer are coming back in an hour.
Let me rewind:
I watched Belle de Jour today. A surrealistic work by Luis Buñuel: engimatic.
Yeasayer is immense! The demonic beast of finding new music has been put to sleep for now:
All hours cymbals provides the inebriation I require to escape the mundane.
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I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed my madness, starving, hysterical, naked. Dragging themselves through the Negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix. Angel-headed hipsters, burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night. Who poverty and tatters, and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold water flats, floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz.
-- Howl -- Completely from memory.
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