Open flood gate. Hark Hark. I look up. Old guy rockin’ tha Capt Highliner av waves a rack of fingers. Who the fuck says “hark” anymore? That’s fuckin’ shakespearean bible right there, bitch. His expression is linkdead. I crack up. Dude is totally AFK. Maybe shock. We rise past him. He tweets me, ‘floodgate’. Weird. I was just thinking about that.
Mr. Clean has his fingers in his mouth. He is gripping the fingertips tightly with his jaw. He is pulling with his arms. His fingers have stretched significantly. One cannot deny. Just look!
Fuck it’s after 1am. Jeezus arseflaps, I better get to bed. I was on my way when I started typing and then got right into making short terse sentences. I guess that is rather fucking amusing. I promised myself earlier that I wouldn’t stay up until 1am. Here I am.
Ask me. Voice on the phone. Ask me anything. Bakelite plastic phone. Warm and that caucasian colour. Round and analogue. Hectares of mechanical switches. Industry.
These ramblings are empty, right? Even though my own writing amuses me, I suspect that it isn’t very good, over all. At the same time, I continue to toss it out there. I guess I have a feeling to share so I can get better at it.
