3 Days till whiskey, weed, cigarettes and individual self-righteous, self absorbed, self assured, self pitied regenerance(proper spelling???) is over. The bowl I just smoked, the pleasure of evan williams by my side, with mary puffing on my vindictive energy in which the sauce of chinese horseradish is created. These are all things I truly pleasure but realize my passion only goes so far anymore. It's time to get creative completely utterly and nearly over wwc. In 3 days I will be living nearly utterly and completely a new life...
The number 3 is a holy number in my life. It started with St Patrick and ended with Marx, a story of change and giving, lies and sex, work and sleep, sun-sunburn-peeled tomato and lunie-lunar grapes no bigger then the moon staring back at me from my twisted last thought of my last trip in Ft Collins.
This paragraph concludes the experimental post number 2, but be ready for more, as 2 is insufficient on a night with 3 splattered in hers and his, indistinguishable from tantric beams of the lune.
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