in the room where the table sits with sunlight shining on half of it, keep the drinks on the colder side, where ashtray is always full and open containers sit full of secret dreams and diagrams, directions into realms of still time we wait for my mind to come back and then we can get things straight and set our plans into motion.
sun is setting like always in my stories and the family familiar tree outside my window.
"so there is Chinese in Finland to?" asks my brother in wonder , and my twin soul sister answers, there are even Arabs midgets and monkeys too and people made out of recycled paper cut out of scissored pages of hotel bible books.
So i scratch my leg and think of few more things to type
One moment she was there, and then pulse went to 0 and she started to move out.
mrs jones was here, but now she is not. if something is not here , it must be somewhere else, so where did she go after her heart start beating /
things just dont disapear now do they?