Sunday, September 11, 2005

On BART to SFO, going to pick up my friend.
Pretty girls, I’m a dirty old man
Tilta-whirl not going to plan
Hard to find friends
With time to spare
When my wit ends
I struggle to care
Loud dark tunnel
Let’s exit the funnel
Narrow opened
A shotgun blast
Sun, hope and
Cars rushing past
Feeling guilty leaving the wife with the boy and she’s all stressed out, but she’s rarely not. Is this it? Is this happiness? Why ask?

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