Mittwoch, Februar 28, 2007


this island calls yoko ono

Ignore my submarine.
Underwater is sunlight, and dreaming.
Underwater is dreaming. Free floating.
A thousands of free floating machines, in a row, in a line, in between nothing else than dreaming.
Roaming. Rooming. Room to move, dream to move.
A dream, that suits well, a room, that covers from fear. Duck and cover.
Not a sound from that disk. Oh, it is the athletic´s. Oh, it is from the fanatics.
Fantastic Four, five, or six tales from the underground, going underground, going to catch the bear, the green brown fox jumping the fence, and hence he did not hunting the cheese but the geese, and clear water for chickens is necessary.
Been binary to no other counts on my carpets, it crawls me from back to ground.
Sorry Sir, we´re livin on the edge. On the edge of a knife of a life of a small understanding. Little is less, greater hope than minor contribution.
On the outside shelters rain, no it came, now it´s gone. And late, not to say good bye, god bye, remember the churches sacred fear, from a fairy tale you can´t expect too much of old mercystuff, beat me up, rather. Rather than jersey, i presume the following.
But the other day there was river. Dancing and going by. Walking his mile.
The green door as banded. As seen. As never heard, not in the matter it should.
Sorry, but i can´t. Go there. Stitch nurse, touch screen.
Scream machine. Go give your dream.
Let life live the bleeding way.
And further. Further on.

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