Your Son's Submarine

Let us prove to you there is no fair idiot, there is bird human hybrid trials as we discussed as a troupe on the old rail, detroit baseball, how to get wood slats to stay put, dislocated jaw symptoms.

Let us prove to you there is no fair idiot, there is bird human hybrid trials as we discussed as a troupe on the old rail, detroit baseball, how to get wood slats to stay put, dislocated jaw symptoms, Tommy from rugrats as a woman. If not your shame it’s the stranger. The muscles in your back seem to atrophy . Ohh!! We’re constantly in horror by sounds of mechanical yell. When you ride the rails, there is your son at the oil rig, and his friends all get blown up when you look at us, and he hates you. When you ride, we ride. It’s not your career, it’s not your sup-club, it’s not your fairness or your son’s criminal, it is your commute. Let us return you to year 0, the yellow fever chic of it all, raising chickens, synonyms for motherhood, the big country, freak folk, coast live oak and salt burns. Your son a pang, dreaming up Hungary’s first singing road, super freaky with no friends. Epiphany!!! Say uncle and we’ll allow you a la vosgienne for your time. Your husband appears in a blue hacker craft, he had trouble being born, he’ll learn to care for wild birds but you are a mammal. He will tell you about your son, and you are Rosanna Arquette in New York Stories, so you are blond, and your son is writing a symphony, and your son is up for adoption, and your son is smoking in a submarine one hundred and thirty-five meters below you, and your son is everything worse than you have but he is alive. And you are lucky. See, there’s that Rohan duck we’ve been counting on, out across the aqueduct, we’re all crying! Let us leave you here, with such a view.