There were 120 days between June in May and Johnny in September. I spent the summer listening to their music, but there is more to remember. It had been five years since my knuckles started bleeding and smearing the names of my references on my job applications, when I started punching walls, punching romance, punching telephone numbers to Ohio, to Texas, to Vermont, to any vagrant female of collapsed sexuality who needed to forget their fucked-up youth for a few minutes, small-chested wah-wah pedals, unmolested garden petals. Then I stuck my head in the toilet (ebb and flow of aphorism) contemplating the crabbiness of the immortal. You were there for the beginning of the blur of optimism, for the end of the slur of pronunciation, you saw it all, from tottering climb to glue factory fall. I thought I saw a light, I thought I saw salvation, naked and rippled. Is the flesh obsessed with the soundless thunder of gog and bate, solid wooden hollow of splendi...
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