call. not before noon or after noon thirty.
occasionally there are critical transition phases associated with umpteen minutes after the midnight of day.
some calls selectively forwarded to my broker or hairdresser [same]. heed the need, son. love is a flammable gas. fat soluble and as exothermic as a fart.
she wears a warning label like a mini-skirt and dismisses you with a smile of corroded gingivitis face.
glory be.
this ain't no lab fire snuffed out like a rat on the mob don, or some wrestling match where you get stuck for an eternal three seconds in public bliss/shame,
this is for life, son, for at least more than the whisker of time.
my tears evaporate into the cloud of shit and piss on the dust of my rotting dead asshole.
fuck outta luck
actually, I've never been happier”
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