Moira Was Like An Elevator With Open

The Threat To The Planet Is Us. It's Actually Not A Threat To The Planet - It's A Threat To Us.

Genres Aren't Closed Boxes. Stuff Flows Back And Forth Across The Borders All The Time.

I Think Of Bad News As A Huge Bird, With The Wings Of A Crow And The Face Of My Grade Four School Teacher, Sparse Bun, Rancid Teeth, Wrinkly Frown, Pursed Mouth And All, Sailing Around The World Under Cover Of Darkness Pleased To Be The Bearer Of Ill Tidings, Carrying A Basket Of Rotten Eggs, And Knowing- As The Sun Comes Up- Exactly Where To Drop Them. On Me, For One.

We Pulled The Seeds Out And Scattered Them On Their Flossy Parachutes, Leaving Only The Leathery Brownish Yellow Tongue, Soft As The Inside Of An Elbow.

Too Much God And You Overdose. God Needs To Be Filtered.