The Beatles once said "one is the loneliest number".
I Sir Paul Mc Cartney, George Harrisson, Ringo Star and Lennon think you are all full of shit.
Three hundred and sixty five is the loneliest number.
Three hundred and sixty five days compose a year.
A year composes memories.
Memories compose themselves out of thin air.
Thin air composes itself out of an act of a non-existant god.
God is composed of coca cola ads, marketing schemes and iphones.
Iphones are the hottest gift this season.
This season is winter.
Winter is getting colder and colder, and windier and windier.
My mind is unwravelling slowly as I watch this world go by with closed eyes.
Eyes reflect the world, and at the end of the year were supposed to reflect on ourselves.
Ourselves are very needy creatures who feed off others well being (for the most part).
Well being is completely self righteous and commendable.
Force another year upon yourself for self improvement self loathing and self distruction.
I mean...happy 2008.
We're almost in the 10's
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fuck you
2 comments:
*applause*
i mean what are you talking about..
this year has been full of significant events with significant people and i really really learned something new about myself that i didnt know before and so did everyone else and yeah man its all about the music now, definetly not about drugs and some self-rightious image everyone is projecting, good bless canada
10
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*number trails off by the sound of grilled cheese frying against a pan..*
your really creepy and dont make much sense but thanks?
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