i have prepared the eternal typewriter.
but in my fears, we will not look back as our houses burn to the ground
and we have rescued our children and our internet and our mortgage
but not our pens. and not our keys. and not our american flags.
rueful, i will step inside amongst fiery ruins of my 1988 citzenship which i have yet to revise.
rueful, i will sell all my records.
rueful, i will telephone lester bangs.
lou reed is dead.
mick jagger is not.
david bowie is married.
and conor oberst is not my saviour.
But The Flaming Lips have taken Acid, I think we will be OK.
(if this is good enough for god, then i am ok)
and i am cool.