Friday, September 09, 2005

friday night conversation

If you’re going to buy one bottle of wine, you might as well buy three. It’s a nice surprise to come home to. They have a nice selection at the bottom of the road.


How do I get there? It’s a secret location. You have to take trams and prams. At least ten of them. It’s a happening in the outskirts of Prague. It’s a nice guy running it. He was the bad guy in some play of mine. He was the witch. He’s a nurse who was thinking of starting selling drugs to supplement his income. It goes as far as Somalia. Intense. Talking to him is interesting though. But all a bit French. You have to skip a few pages and then it’s still more of the same. Skip a hundred pages and you still can’t escape the gory details.


Your plants are the living dead.
No they’re not. I stuck my fingers in and they were all still moist. I’ve been giving orders to the pathetic ones. They all smell of cayenne, but it stops the soil-on-floor problems. But it is going to kill them. First time I water them they’re dead. It’s sublime cruelty. Burn the roots!


I never knew they separated. Very intricate. It’s a high desk. Like the decks are going to be. Like the postals. Like the folktronica. Where’s the harmonica player hiding? He can’t have that many friends we don’t know about. These folktronica circles are small. Maybe he’s tempting girls with a samba not sex drum beat. I will forever remember him as the Great Failed Celibate. Still, you can’t be clever all the time. That’s just boring. It’s endless fun though. First you eat them and then you play with the wrappers for hours.


Red and yellow make green!
Green and yellow make blue!


The broken sock puppet slunk his broken self over the arm of the sofa.
How does one break a sock puppet?, you ask.
You drop it from a high waterfall in Chiapas.

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