|the sleep of death is dreamless.
||[Dec. 27th, 2004|09:56 am]
|||||pac-man's ghost pinky.||]|
|||||crown me king- john patmos, don't eat the brown acid||]|
send out the heralds & while you are at it run out the cannons, too. o & hell, the canons, lets make this shit get all dogmatic, because last night i met up with sparrowhills. thats right, the very swede who caused brother to turn against brother over fruits, vegetables & lambchops; who poisoned jesus' wine & made him say all that crazy shit; who dropped 'shrooms with some crazy guy on patmos. she's having some double-barrel action this christmas it turns out; but then, olive is a bit used to that sort of thing. i tore her out of the grasp of her union square hotel & took her to satellite, where victoria works. we drank gin & tonics there for a while, talking about my novel ideas & waiting for kate's flake to become official. eventually, when we'd had our fill, we took to the streets & arm in arm i walked her back to the hotel. i was going to take my leave of her then (we've got two weeks to be the best of enemies) but persueded myself into staying for a few drinks more. my impressions of the evening? if by impressions you mean the marks left on a punching bag when you get done with it, then we are on the same page. how many people live in new york? 8.5 million or something? anyhow, 9 million people live in sweden. so basically my town is as big as olive's country. which is to say: she's a big fish in a small fucking pond. but let me tell you- she'd be a big fish anywhere else. she heralds your destruction, o mankind.