| Dispatches from the Desperate |
[May. 25th, 2012|04:41 am] |
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So how do I describe tonight? This Baudelaire poem drunkenly growled after hours, back stage and behind the scenes. Swept fiercely under a rowdy enchantment. Lost in a riot of masks. Seven pipes deep amongst the thieves, the actors and magicians. Whiskey mesmerized by the bold traveler's tales spilled with a laugh from lips that tattoo kisses across my wishes. The pipe lit up defiantly as we march...ed loudly down Little Five - invincible, invisible, holy in our abandonment. Seizing bars, clubs, concerts, cafes, situations, wild ideas that never stood a chance outside the theatre fever of our collective conjecture. Burning quietly here in the march of the shadow parade, drift-dancing chance to chance across the naked possibilities and laughing as far as the night will take us. |
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| Signs of the Times: |
[May. 11th, 2012|04:50 pm] |
Hey Satre, if there's 'No Exit', why don't you just simply try walking backwards through the entrance and call it the day? |
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jackbabalon23's journal
