All I want to do is fly and be a ninja spy.
People say that I'm a party; I say that I'm a mix between a 1960's hippie love-in and an awkwardly drunken office holiday shingding. (In Chicago, I have experienced both in the matter of 2 months)
I'm back in the New York City....and the townfolk rejoyce.
I have a spiritual connection to Sea Cows, they are my band of brothers.
I once faked an entire 45 minute sense memory exercise by reciting the words of "Fast Car" to my acting teacher while pretending to cry. I loved college.
Recite "Annabel Lee" to me I'm yours forever
I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth, and that was frightening. But I saw something that only I could see, because of my astonishing ability to see such things: Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles, and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules, of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them, and was repaired. Nothing's lost forever. In this world, there's a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that's so.<
