Saturday, September 26, 2009

My Dad is a Dog. Deal With It.

Days age like a loosely ripened plum. It turns pale, and then it bleeds. Under the table lies a key hole. It seems as if she has kept that key, or maybe its lost; not in their hands. Whale watch with me by the blood soaked tides.

There is a lot of frustration. I need to do something.

I was told to try out a dadaist approach to my style of writing. Maybe if my other half chooses to do so.

Wake up at 8am. Take photos of a wedding at 9 until god knows when. I don't think I want to take photos for people again, and I haven't even done it once yet...

You're gonna get it.

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