Rolling Stones' Dead Flowers is perhaps one of the those songs that can pull you even if you're sinkin in a pool of depression and slit wrists. Not only that -- the covers I've heard of it are brilliant too.
But well that apart -- I ask myself the question, that I always manage to ask myself every couple of days. So what's it going to be then, eh?
Well first of all nothing. Everything is so brilliant pissing off, that if I began to tell you. You'd probably have a couple of extra tears kept aside for the news of my funeral. (Send me dead flowers.)
And so well a seven day long night shift is hellish -- and it continues. It's as I've been telling people -- like doing solitary in jail or working for seven straight Sundays all lined in a week. And somehow it burns every remote inspiration of daylight and life from you. I don't care or I shouldn't care.
But then again I wouldn't talk about that. I crip enough, and even though a good crib is tough to find these days. I suppose we'll skip to something else.
Something different...something I can remember and pull out this rabbit-out-of-a-hat story that would delight you my fellow brothers, sisters and lovers.
(Poof)