"Let the machine get it, I have no desire to talk to anyone who might be calling me."
--Seymour, Ghost World.
a chap called norman, with red hair and a poetry book stained with the butter-drips from crumpets.
♥
somebody with hallucinogenic drugs.
somebody who has the lonely planet.
somebody who'll make me stuff. i like stuff.
somebody who'll like me, even once they know me.
somebody who'll remember to put the lids back on the felt tips.
somebody who wants to have adventures and picnics and monopoly death matches and tea parties and midnight beach journeys and trips to the zoo and emergency discos and unnecessary fancy dress with me.
pretty eyes
and a pirate smile
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"