Something's wrong, frightfully. I'm pretty upset about it. I've been thinking about it. Which is why I couldn't sleep about it, and even when I managed some -- I still couldn't hide. And I've never been like this.
The trouble is it makes me look silly. For this once she makes my words are foolish. And even though I know there's isn't just one starfish in the sea
I can't really tell you. Maybe it's Marquez's Love in the Time of Choelra. I'm trapped in a Marquez land, in love with every things he paints. The sheer imagery and the dreamy wisdom -- this is the way I would assume God would talk after death (in a Morgan Freeman sort of voice). His words of ink are arsenic to me. Sometimes Dylan's my relief -- sometimes broken tears. Leonard Cohen's there but coughing on herbal cigarettes.
And I really can't tell you. Which is why you would want to know more. My perfect Sunday lost in a cloud of gloom, choking on a puke of thoughts, rum, and some words -- seemingly possible lies, or lies of thoughts.
I'm chasing a mist to make a curtain for a palace that sits on tufts of vanilla ice-cream.

"I once had a girl, or should I say she once had me." Norwegian Woods.