Wednesday, September 19, 2007

thy will be done

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