I woke up this morning dreaming of vampires. I blame Martin's server.
They only had to touch me and I was infected. They had gravelly hands. They were, perhaps, ninjas.
Telegram Sam, you're my main man.
This Dylan lyric (upper left) and the next one (tomorrow), by the way, can never be topped. The job of poetry was done once they were written. Don't believe me? That's your problem.
Another word to the wise: Joan Miro. With a little grave accent over the "o" of "Miro" which I can't reproduce here. But if you're wise, you already know what I mean.
No comments:
Post a Comment