kalischild

Well I fell in love
With your sailor's mouth and your wounded eyes...

You better get down on the floor
Don't you know this is war...

Who are you?

Who are you this time?

Sometimes Tom Waits just says it all.

And there you have it.



G'night kids. Sleep tight. Catch you later.

It's a strange time; I'm learning to take the good things in small sips, simply because I have to now.
I feel like a new person born into the body of a stranger. I've said 'no' to so many things that a year ago I would have taken, drained, and walked away from, and the few things I genuinely want seem to be out of...
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wo things that never stop being funny in film:

Midgets, and dead hookers.

Hmm. Losing the dreadlocks was a fabulous idea.

I look all soft and cute and cuddly now, and my eyes are huge and blue.

I adore it, because along with the package comes the remembrance of what a mean little bitch I was, pre-Indigo.

Please do me the favor of not assuming the two of us are one and the same.

The rules of the...
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Hmm.

Everything is grey and tired, and sweet, and passing strange.

Closing time in the Deep Blue Lounge. Time to place the chairs on the tables, blow out the cold blue candles, escort the ghosts and drunks and failed loves to the door, and chain it shut behind us. And let the bodies laying in the corners rot.

It was a beautiful place in the...
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Nope. Still have to wait a bit.

Burning Man is stupid.

And I cut off all my dreads.

That is all.

For Nixon

Subject: How to have the Burning Man experience from the comfort of your own home:

Tear down your house. Put it in a truck. Drive 10 hours in any direction. Put the house back together. Invite everyone you meet to come over and party. When everyone leaves, follow them back to their homes, drink all their booze, and break things.

Stack all your...
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Oh.

Hell.

Yeah.

http://www.knac.com/article.asp?ArticleID=4865

Mmm.

That song ended a little differently than I expected.

She wasn't hungry, she was sweet. She had sugar water in her veins and on her lips.

Nice.

Tonight I think I'll write a song.

A driving bass of vodka and halogen streetlamps.

Kick drums stolen from the thud of boots on wet asphalt. Snares the sound of slapping flesh.

A melody line of long, drawn-out misanthropy.

A repeating chorus of connecting to no one.

And a final stanza, about nothing you want to hear about.

Or maybe I'll find someone who wants...
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Woke up to Tool and the morning sun today. Good energy for work in. Hopping down the road this weekend to get hacked softsynths for the lappytop; it's been far too long sing I wrote.

I miss the road, and I don't like S.F. it feels like a holding room, a place where lost packages are kept and never claimed. I look forward to the...
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