shitfucker.

Squinting one eye, Oreilly poured himself another drink; the clownlike twist of his mouth hardened into a line of scholarly straightness. “That is a million-dollar question, kid. Why don’t you ask something easy, like how to cure the common cold? Yes, kid, what does it mean? I have thought about it a good deal. I have thought about it in the process of making love to a woman, and I have thought about it in the middle of a poker game.” He tossed the drink down his throat and shuddered. “Now a sound can start a dream; the noise of one car passing in the night can drop a hundred sleepers into the deep parts of themselves. It’s funny to think of that one car racing through the dark, trailing so many dreams. Sex, a sudden change of light, a pickle, these are little keys that can open up our insides, too. But most dreams begin because there are furies inside of us that blow open all the doors. I don’t believe in Jesus Christ, but I do believe in people’s souls; and I figure it this way, baby: dreams are the mind of the soul and the secret truth about us. Now Master Misery, maybe he hasn’t got a soul, so bit by bit he borrows yours, steals it like he would steal your dolls or the chicken wing off your plate. Hundreds of souls have passed through him and gone into a filing case.”

- Truman Capote

I can't write for shit,

Jules: This is the gormet shit!

Jimmy: I don't need you to tell me how fucking good my coffee is, okay? I'm the one who buys it, I know how good it is. When Bonnie goes shopping, she buys shit. Me, I buy the gourmet expensive stuff because when I drink it, I want to taste it. But you know what's on my mind right now? It ain't the coffee in my kitchen, it's the dead nigger in my garage.

Jules: Let me ask you a question-

Jimmy: No, let me ask you a question. When you came pulling in here, did you see a sign out in front of my house that said Dead Nigger Storage?

Jules: No, I did not see that sign

Jimmy: Wanna know why? Cause it ain't there, 'cause storing dead niggers ain't my fucking business, that's why!

The Fidelio Society is proud to present:

How about a little fire, Scarecrow?

Set things into a pattern faster than a post on Siobhan's blog the exams did didn't they? I sure am sick of them, but thats ok I guess because they are almost over, well I have two tomorrow but they are science, which isn't an exam, and drama, which is my least favoroute subject, so it should be a pretty relaxed day.

Which brings me to sunshine. We don't get enough of it, exept lately we got too much of it because I haven't been wanting any of it. I had to go across the street today to get to the auction house and it hurt my eyes. The house didn't sell by the way, I could have gone home. And I did straight after it but still, my eyes are burnt, its like someone doesn't like me. And if i didn't like someone I would drag them out of their house and burn them on a stick (if I really didn't like them).

At Work On His Masterpiece

Lots and lots and typically cliche spheres and tubes only made the exterior look like an artist was alive and well, as well as being artistic. Off the horizontal edge of the balcony a picture of a hill, just one, framed by a semi vicious awning, rectangular open at the bottom with a man in the middle, an artist at work on his worldly erotic.

Late in the evening as he tucked himself into bed and kissed his relentless manhood goodnight, two lines (two that soon shrank into one) circled in his head. First I must be a prodigy child, and then does it mean a lot that I'm hardcore. And it was then our man discovered that the night is is fine time for the erotic on paper. In the morning his canvas was torn up with disgusting, but the spheres and tubes still had him feeling special.

Once he finally slept the next night after that, his dreams saw a flash of old school schishk! and a thick hand pleated catwalk. At the exhibit of her masterpiece there was thin blooded stale in every shot, If only for a decent photographer. He slept without fear that night.

Another body joined the basement, making six greenhouses rotting perfectly for him in three even rows.

Some more Rene Maggrite, but unfortunatly still no red bird. Anyhoo, our fist meeting was a sucsess, woohoo.

The movie! The movie is going quite nicely, but I have no idea whats going to happen for the second half, and Andrew needs to compose songs.

Having fun reading my forced posts wackkie?