So little things, I hate things. I hate my things. I want all things gone and away from me. There’s no need for attachment. Why has this even been had? Yikes!!!!! Who needs collection now? What’s the point? Is there ever enough? But how fucking cold? And from where to when? Also: directions. Maybe I have gloves. In the same sense. Question mark. Nobody knows it but you. Err, —her. Benefit of the doubt. A cloth made out of Jesus’ face. Merchandising. Or merely walking down the sidewalk struttin’ in the frosty weather. You leave the brisk wind. The fear of farting and someone seeing it from your pants like they see breath from your mouth.
Leaving Records did the ultimate and threw together Cat 500’s The Comp for future’s sake. Honest gems. Breathable:
More about: Cat 500
