This is the sort of diagram that a siren named Lost Tiger devised. She would discuss life and everything with interesting people all day and get paid for it by the government. The idea relied on an eternal soul though she was she had very small answers when asked by her husband. They both found it better that way as they rarely came to the slightest bitterness in their voices during their discussions, which included the world as it lay in a box and some little caves that surrounded the very real mountain.
They say there is gold in the caves, hidden during the last passing band of Juggernauts that by now are far into the backcountry and singing their merry songs. But all the common country folk avoided the land of the Juggernauts. This particular troll was strange and an avid learner so all the back trade letters that and the other temped you empty. Formal words and that little rose that made him more like a devil and tired in the heart. The poetic justice that needed to help the people was 60 years in the past and they now lived in peace.
Each side had great heroes and in the end of the recent one hundred years war they simply could not recall who had struck first. The mothers of children regaled stories of the heroes in the hat room or barrooms to sustain brawls between two men of the same race in order to keep the metaphysical balance.
Two other men are charged with an offence where needles and monikers reined.
They needed to be battle weary and play tunes to a different tone. The best men knew where and why they needed to crawl. But the phenomenal to mention is about these two children, but the book should not be like them at all. The man wanted to leave stage for a while and write. He is allowed to do that. And maybe he will be with grace. Perhaps he can carry the old world draft roads and quarries that lined the route to where the great battles had their end.
For sixty years ago two men like Sampson were born on either side of the long valley and each became king among the valley dwelling men.
The nomadic trolls are awkward and subtle and little else. All parties are at peace though they know they are stronger. Or there is a wizard and he is saying nothing to the men. I see him real and modern like the pest that would go away. His manners are Soviet and he carries a light goatee, and light to the touch he is briskly walking my way.
I have little else to be less than a socialite and blessed in the touched of everything worn. They tell me my name and I am left to the house and they march in and take care of the champagne. This had to be work, it had to be real and if it was not funny than it could not be for children. It could be for children and the children that came next, they are whom this tale is about.
The latter part spent for the mention of sentences slept and an ounce over the snide bouncing is out. The martyrs are conscious and light their old ounce with it and he past the dockside in a drab little stride and looked as the bouncers led another drunk man out the bar. It was too early in the morning for a character like that. He must have been up all night. They were elders and humble about their beginnings. He had little red cigarettes bounced before his eyes. I had nothing of the sort. All that he gave to me was his regret. He said he sounded rather like a musician in there, I’ve surmised.
And letters where there should have been men and letters that they had about a drafted colleague that lived in Festin too. The place that nary a man left in Festin was made for a message or moniker still. The parameters left in a world such as this could be foggy cold days and much time spent inside. The drip on the rain from the large tumbling pines lets him settle and be right tonight. He felt better than he ever had. He never knew the war, and had met many Juggernauts in his travels. He felt like an outsider over there but no one truly tried to harm him. There wasn’t the hate they told him their used to be. He had told him they used to be because of the men that she’d rather fancy.
The hairpiece he had was a metaphor for the symbolic relations of fierce accusations that led the people to believe that only a few men had accomplished that much. If otherwise occupied men settle in they have Montreal mindsets and are much better for it. They symbolize the nomenclature that haunted this desk and the typist of these words. The Trident stood strong and exterior agents felt wrong those words held his wrists as if it laid some sort of prayer. The chief and his men approached a dropping point and needed to bury all that they had. These metal machines are behind me and they leave their old rocking horse pastures that push you from the edge. This world was lit by on single light bulb, and the unruly men had their hands on the power.
So fear him, no I would never fear him. I have all my faith in the church. They will and always have been right. Do the right thing. Hold your heart strong and you will flutter but the nonsense is quivering and lit by this light bulb. It was all he had. Without the bulb he had nothing. Yet it scared him, he would have rather had nothing. These were the ones who walked away. These however drastically needed to make this man over. All those that settled his wary soul. Breathless she replied, “I will.”
Only the pattern in my mind holds me back. The spinning of the looking glass and her awkward medicine that needed to lay down the open in doors and freeways and the like a bit of the answers that sheltered his mindset they wanted to be fair and were monitored by the license that held their vase open and needed the overrun to be lit by the fire. But this meant they would go too slow. Or would they run to fast? It was something in the middle. They knew not, but this trip would be somewhere around average in every aspect.
Nothing to vicious went array. Jack Platt would have it the other way. They all sat in line waiting for Jack. He was late often and wore a suit with a black fedora. “Everything looked better through a black fedora,” Jack would say.
In agents of ceiling fans buzzed and the doors spun him through to the bank in front of him. He marched across the floor and waited in line near the teller. They knew every step was in the wrong direction; the men faced their doom. It was three in the morning. Blissfully the sheep were told that minds and hearts matter. I fear that the poetic justice perused by my character should be harmless.
The poet justice of this character must be harmless. And with that Decree I proclaim that the one true road north is the table salt and pilgrimage to Bethlehem.
This is a religious man. I fell no need for the near and sideways glances that giving this sheet to an editor would do. The best way to write is to catch yourself writing and then find your old journals and counter their actions. The only way to start writing is to move past the first barrier and then face the barriers that come later on. And with this I should smoke, as my eyes are beginning to hurt and I feel like a poet in need of opening drafts. The writer is the character in all recently read journals but the self-righteous struggle is epochs in scale at times. This is another muse I have about mental illness. These states lead to a perpetually wiser and safer conclusion. These conclusions are difficult to grasp and I suppose the normal person who let such ideas just be. The mad mind is the one to reach inside. So even as weaker minds do not prevail I wonder in writing what I’m doing to my world I have found the brief manuscript and by chance I read that one. It told me what I’m doing I am doing right.
Though I try a simpler note. A smoke, yes a smoke. That is what I need. At any rate a smoke makes me want to discuss literal things. Why? Or study the word why. I should do a brief synopsis on the word ‘Why.’ Lets look up the definition: “Interrogative adverb asking for what reason or purpose.” Why do we do the things we do? That is a question she asks me. Why do you put that there and not someplace else? Well I suppose that is just the best-shaped drawer for that. Yes, It would fit somewhere else.
Why do I live in Penticton? Is Penticton a real place? Is it my indoctrination in some world that lasts more so in thought than in image. I think it is that idea the doctors are telling me is that simple idea that I am a musician and writer with my time. I am leaving a trail of designs and templates for people to enjoy. The doctors convinced me I was there, truly doing it. They told me I am successful.
This breakthrough can be found initially in a repressed memory that flooded into my subconscious about seven years ago. Since then I had only heard one strange image of a horrid man who kept me locked in the relationship, both these men acted the same. They took pictures of my subconscious and abused me with nattering names. The whole time I thought these two people were real and the invisible world should not be trusted. The time before that I thought I was in Primus.
So is Penticton a real place? I don’t know. It seems to have an economy and society of people doing likeminded things. It seems to have a coffee shop for those who dream. The lights and glitter that is show business show that some men play stadiums and some men can see them. To be fair, quite a large number of people in show business can see the audience. I haven’t really yet. I remember I used to draw a crowd to a small place called Voodoo’s near purgatory bus stop. The spooky numbers were drawn out of that dive.
I never played a stadium but it was because I never saw it. So I had a revelation.
Because I know there is an audience, I don’t know if I could do it if I could see the thousands. I am now discussing not touring and sitting at home writing a book. And thank you for all the memories. It was a wonderful time with friends for me. Hopefully it was for you too. For now, pals, I am going to sit and write something that sounds like the above chapter. It will lead to me writing something of some sense. I just want to be like Frank Zappa.
But do I really? That is the question.
But do I really? That is the question.