Everyone Come Out/spinning cabinets/kick that rabbit right in two/can you talk about the country i'm from in the same language. one i can understand?

Everyone comes out of the woodwork with their hands open. They seek shavings, they seek saving. I have nothing to offer them but the same played out old trick I've done for years as a consequence of my breathing. Sorry if you're looking for something new. It's just plain old me. And that wasn't enough for ages.

I raise what little money I can to send down the sinkhole the rest of life it can't live up and it's just a run on sentence wandering to find a meaning.

I've got a duck billed platypus to pay. He's waiting down by the docks and I'm guessing the nerve I'm on is his last. I slap hands to while away the time, but the sands have shifted. My allergies are in high alert mode. Can a light house spot the invisible man? When the calls are too close to make, who will answer the phone? Poppycock, slap dash answers.

The MD was empty, the concept on an unsound structure. The building codes were downloaded from the Internet. He turned his mind off in the ICU and smoked a verbal cigarette. He ate ashes as the patient spat vitriol (new: Vitriol from Calvin Klein) from an unchecked liver spot over his third eye's mind's dirty mouth.


Different hands on the same arms. That creek goes somewhere, but I'm not sure. I won't or can't say, and it no longer matters. The raft we made out of discarded rib cages no longer comforts me in the same way. Yes, it is comfortable, but it is aesthetically displeasing. I've got to eat my friends just to survive, and that's a surefire way to make some enemies. But I'm not dropping names, I'm dropping friends into a tasty bucket. What a shitstorm I'll catch if we survive. But I'm not naming names. I will make a great cannibal recipe book. Enjoy the monogrammed whiplash collar. I'm eating a collarbone.
The widow piqued long ago. She figured when he ran out of places to hide, he'd find what he was looking for. But it's doubtful this was it.

His ghost was so lazy; it was the least he could do after kicking off this mortal coil to ship off to another dimension. Nope. In death, much like life, he still hung around his usual haunts. He'd laze about on the couch after waking up on it. He'd watch TV, those awful daytime shows nobody but housewives and male ghosts get suckered into watching slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. Although admittedly, he did eat far less snack foods now that he was no longer among the living.

That tends to happen.

Different hands on the same arms. That creek goes somewhere, but I'm not sure. I won't or can't say, and it no longer matters. The raft we made out of discarded rib cages no longer comforts me in the same way. Yes, it is comfortable, but it is aesthetically displeasing. I've got to eat my friends just to survive, and that's a surefire way to make some enemies. But I'm not dropping names, I'm dropping friends into a tasty bucket. What a shitstorm I'll catch if we survive. But I'm not naming names. I will make a great cannibal recipe book. Enjoy the monogrammed whiplash collar. I'm eating a collarbone.

Anyway, if you count to 10 with me, that's all the time I'd need to sneak away.