Friday, January 13, 2006

To my future postcard--
PhotoShop me there, like a Heaven expose, oh bright outlaw. To my applied force, give me the power of fuss. Gravity does work on the children on the hill; Let’s let me method through. Amok, it’s tracery, not the boss of me saving my caps lock for your red sugar sprinkles underneath. A louder you could single out the hours singing the music of thieves. Feel the up when remembering when that year was license new, like a free breakfast,
eggs made to order,
Love, Your Building


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