just...not...yet. hour fifteen out of sixteen and then a nice girl named patty drives me home. i smell like ink and soup. there might be a haiku i could get out of that, but i really can't concentrate that hard. if you were here, you would hear me talking to myself in a deserted room as the machine makes sounds like waves against a beach. sum-beach. wayne
2 comments:
My least favorite beach.
Sounds like you're close to being out on your feet. I've had that feeling before. Makes me want to have a nap in your honor, Wayne.
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