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excerptsfromchrispinesmoleskine:

Untitled #73
‘Tis the season, and what a season it is. Life moves quickly when you’re sitting down. You live for the little imperfections: the stray coffee ground in your gourmet drink, not at the bottom of the cup, but floating near the top, so you feel it on your tongue and it sticks to the roof of your mouth, dicking you around like the world did before you got lucky, kid. Little acts of carelessness become the best parts of your day, the one barista smiling, oblivous and empty [better word? check thesaurus]. The other one is sad, like a blog no one visits. Can a man outgrow his fear? Can I? Are you checking me out, or counting the wrinkles in my shirt? “You’re so whatever,” and what of that? Tinny holiday music tells us it’s a time for being merry, and that Santa Claus is coming. One you know is a lie, and so naturally you wonder about the other. Lies, lies. Yes, Virginia, you’re a fool. Don’t go in that pool, you’ll drown.
Ho ho ho. Hear how there’s noise in that silent night. All day long I perform for someone. Is it you? Is it me?
Bottled water is a myth.
(consider revising: too Cormac McCarthy? be more like Hemingway)

excerptsfromchrispinesmoleskine:

Untitled #73

‘Tis the season, and what a season it is. Life moves quickly when you’re sitting down. You live for the little imperfections: the stray coffee ground in your gourmet drink, not at the bottom of the cup, but floating near the top, so you feel it on your tongue and it sticks to the roof of your mouth, dicking you around like the world did before you got lucky, kid. Little acts of carelessness become the best parts of your day, the one barista smiling, oblivous and empty [better word? check thesaurus]. The other one is sad, like a blog no one visits. Can a man outgrow his fear? Can I? Are you checking me out, or counting the wrinkles in my shirt? “You’re so whatever,” and what of that? Tinny holiday music tells us it’s a time for being merry, and that Santa Claus is coming. One you know is a lie, and so naturally you wonder about the other. Lies, lies. Yes, Virginia, you’re a fool. Don’t go in that pool, you’ll drown.

Ho ho ho. Hear how there’s noise in that silent night. All day long I perform for someone. Is it you? Is it me?

Bottled water is a myth.

(consider revising: too Cormac McCarthy? be more like Hemingway)

(via cuorerivelatore)

(Source: reddit.com)

excerptsfromchrispinesmoleskine:

Untitled #73
‘Tis the season, and what a season it is. Life moves quickly when you’re sitting down. You live for the little imperfections: the stray coffee ground in your gourmet drink, not at the bottom of the cup, but floating near the top, so you feel it on your tongue and it sticks to the roof of your mouth, dicking you around like the world did before you got lucky, kid. Little acts of carelessness become the best parts of your day, the one barista smiling, oblivous and empty [better word? check thesaurus]. The other one is sad, like a blog no one visits. Can a man outgrow his fear? Can I? Are you checking me out, or counting the wrinkles in my shirt? “You’re so whatever,” and what of that? Tinny holiday music tells us it’s a time for being merry, and that Santa Claus is coming. One you know is a lie, and so naturally you wonder about the other. Lies, lies. Yes, Virginia, you’re a fool. Don’t go in that pool, you’ll drown.
Ho ho ho. Hear how there’s noise in that silent night. All day long I perform for someone. Is it you? Is it me?
Bottled water is a myth.
(consider revising: too Cormac McCarthy? be more like Hemingway)

excerptsfromchrispinesmoleskine:

Untitled #73

‘Tis the season, and what a season it is. Life moves quickly when you’re sitting down. You live for the little imperfections: the stray coffee ground in your gourmet drink, not at the bottom of the cup, but floating near the top, so you feel it on your tongue and it sticks to the roof of your mouth, dicking you around like the world did before you got lucky, kid. Little acts of carelessness become the best parts of your day, the one barista smiling, oblivous and empty [better word? check thesaurus]. The other one is sad, like a blog no one visits. Can a man outgrow his fear? Can I? Are you checking me out, or counting the wrinkles in my shirt? “You’re so whatever,” and what of that? Tinny holiday music tells us it’s a time for being merry, and that Santa Claus is coming. One you know is a lie, and so naturally you wonder about the other. Lies, lies. Yes, Virginia, you’re a fool. Don’t go in that pool, you’ll drown.

Ho ho ho. Hear how there’s noise in that silent night. All day long I perform for someone. Is it you? Is it me?

Bottled water is a myth.

(consider revising: too Cormac McCarthy? be more like Hemingway)

(via cuorerivelatore)

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