Monday, December 27, 2004

extasy



I'm never going back. They can't make me. I'm staying here. I'm selling everything. Wait, I don't have anything to sell; never mind. But if I did, I would sell it all. Then I'd move into the mountains. Far away from everything. And everyone. I'd run from ambition, hide from the world's problems, and escape the daily dilemma of survival. I'll slide down endless slopes of soft, fluffy white, carving arcs on baby-smooth slopes.

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