viernes, 30 de julio de 2010
Mom, from so much daydreaming I have grown wings
from so much swimming some day I will grow scale.
Sad soul, diffused karma, planet in crisis.
George Bush, the fifth horseman of the apocalypse.
Another galaxy, another clitoris, we are prisioners of pleasure.
The system spits us because we're just puppets.
Man and machines, lost in networks.
Because androids dream with mechanical sheeps?
There are no marbles in the park or churros for friday.
I do not need the Play Station to fly, and I have Julio Verne misunderstood as Don Quijote. Better dead then simple, rather be crazy then mediocre.