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His voice, so full of the emptiness of space, gave breath to the heralding in his eyes. And with a simple flash of seeing, knowing, she found herself floundering, drowning in an acataleptic sea, full of hollowness, full of nothingness, found herself choking on space and coughing up time, both cognitive facilities proving insufficient in the interpretation of the void inside his eyes.
As if by some ancient memory, she remembered to offer him her hand (her second mistake) as a greeting. He took it with a startling ferocity, and she could see him, she could feel him gulping down her matter like so much meat.
She wished she'd never seen him, wished she never heard him say her name. She wished she would have stayed home, safe with the static nurturing of chemicals and electricity. She wished she could still feel the finite comforts that she surrounded and covered herself with. But alas, where she once meant only to dip her toes into oblivion, not ready for the crushing density of such a non-space, not knowing that the blade she flirted with had tendrils with which she would be invaded with, enveloped in, and brought down with to be cast unto the bottom of the bottomless, where everything became everything and thus became nothing.
"I welcome you to my abode."
He awoke in his tent, covered in sweat and grit, pulling sticks and worms out of his hair and wondering if he should be happy or not at the moment. He sat up, scraping the grime from beneath his nails, letting the mists of slumber rise out from his head and back to a land unknown to men who see what they are supposed to. Looking blankly at the veined walls, listening to a tribal orchestra beating and blowing away at different parts of animal remains, like so many savages, all whooping and hopping about smoldering ashes of a disregarded fire, thinking all the while, thinking things like "why am I here" and "how did I get myself here". His head was hanging and he had to hold it in his hands because so many people, people that he missed, all hung around his head, conversing with him, except they weren't really saying anything new, just repeating things they had already said, to the point where it was all he could hear, and tears of longing happened upon his ducts.
"What is this?" he thought. "I thought these people were with me."
I guess they weren't.
Right?
He looked at the figure lying next to him, still wrapped up amongst the comforts of slumber, her figure exuding a radiance he had become familiar with, one he knew as his own, finding the rays of excellence avoiding him, taking detours around his body, spiraling about his trunk, pricking the back of his neck before they would pierce through the top of the vaguely transparent ceilings, reaching for heights he cared not for. For now, he was stuck on this earth, amongst the grit and the filth, wallowing in tide-pools full of strange occurrences occurring as he saw, occurring long ago, already all occurred (as it occurred to him), ridding him tumultuous with fear and longing.
Why were tears now leaping into his eyes? Who was giving them to him? As if he didn't know. Still, he pondered.
This is just stupid, the thought had said to him. What is this even all about? As if he didn't already know. And still, he wondered.
Was I? Am I? Could it all be? Wrong? Really? No. Really? Oh God. No. Really? It can't. It's me, right? It's for me. Or so he thought.
And now, all of his friends and comrades stood before him upon a great plain of green, a seaward wind whipping through their hair, the same wind he thought himself the only one canny to, except now he clearly saw it affecting them all. He saw them all close their eyes and smile as they enjoyed the warming breeze that heated their Heart and cooled their Soles. Then he saw himself, watching them do as he did, as he often had done, watching them put not with them, the zephyrs pulling him in a direction he saw as his own, now sharing it with all he had seen, as he wished to have done, as he had often tried to have done, as was already done, unknown to he but not I, for now I see the painting as I commit it all to a canvas. And what a funny little doodle has become of it? Was it all not just a scribble, some chicken scratch upon a dried hide of membrane, my brain, until I realized what paints and colors I had with me, all the time, lying about in rust and ruins for folly of the amateurs immaturity, not knowing what he was doing with what he had?
I still see you guys like that. I haven't stopped since. He hasn't either. It's stuck like that. And God, how ablest is it that it should remain this way! Had I not seen it, I would not be coming back. I'm coming back for you. You.
And so, as he hangs his head, droll tears still dripping out his eyes, still standing upon that grassy plain with the sea wind and the smiling faces, one of you, probably you, steps forward, bearing unspeakable lights upon your wake, and you take him by the shoulder, lift his chin, and you show him what courage he has, that I have, that you have, the tears now becoming vapour, and both of your faces bespeckled with awe as you, together, behold the celestial spectrum, wondering with excited amusement which stars you will soon call your own.
I love you. Thank you for everything.
I let go of law,
and the people become honest.
I let go of economics,
and people become prosperous.
I let go of religion,
and people become serene.
I let go of all desire for the common good,
and the good becomes common as grass.
But I don't know what that means. "Look softly"? They're my eyes, for Christ's sake! They only see colored spectrums, horned rays of ROY G BIV. There's purple, there's red, there's orange, there's pink (pink! for Gods sake!). Am I not limited by my normal perception of things? Was I wrong to bow before me primal senses?
Was I? Will I? What the hell?
Of course not, of course not! Little bodies, wrapped tightly in rags of rainbow-vomit, eating tiny balls of pop culture, tripping across existence, not capable of appreciation, like your dad watching the History Channel. Slimy cells, slithering and snaking across their own backs, clutching whatever tattered book their parents gave them when they were still soft, supple, sweet; perfect.
Fuck. Another skid-mark on reality. And we were so close!
But this! This is truth, this is what I see. "How can I see that which I don't already see?" asks the idiot savant, clicking away on the very alter that he once swore, always swore to break.
And here is where life reveals its Ultimate and All-Encompassing Comedy: here, we are forced to lick the algae off the bars of our prison, for we are fed no other way, and to refuse is to perish.
But the joke gets even better! It turns out there were no bars at all! No cells, no guards, just a whole bunch of lovely scoundrels, all marching in time around a whole lot of Roman ruins. But don't try to distract them! They still think it's real, and it's all so very real to them.
"I DON' KNOW WUT YOU BEEN TOLD!" one of them screams, as the rest of the parade echoes. "ALL I KNOWS WUT I BEEN TOLD!" Sound off! 1..2...Sound off! 3...4...
Day after day after ohsolongfucking day, I watch this procession of practicality, this march of mainstream. I watch everyday, and watch as more people succumb to their numbers and commit hideous acts of osmosis. They become it. They are it.
We are it.
Aw, fuck...
...we are it.
But you already knew that. You already know everything. I know, because I, too know everything. I know everything because I know nothing.
Did you know that you know nothing? You probably didn't. If you did, I wouldn't have "The Black Parade" stuck in my head right now.
So open up and become empty. Please? I'll try it too.
Fuck. Too many goddamn pieces to keep track of. Too easy to be misplaced.
It sure as hell doesn't help that every bend and angle of reality has some sort of edge to it. Everything's a fucking pick axe. Not saying it's its fault. Just doesn't help. Hell, maybe it does. Probably does. I'm probably just being a coward.
Always, always, always dulling the blade of reality. Dull, dull, dull, dulling everything.
Yet something, always, always something calls me back, keeps me coming back to that place, so far away upon the stratosphere, looking down from gray clouds, looking down with pale eyes, watching with a smile, asking me so beautifully to come and sit at its side.
O, Voided Deity! Sweet Samsara whose heights I shall rise to! How I wish to dip my soiled feet in the pool that keeps your temple in the company of star-stuff that shrouds You and envelops You and makes You All!
What can I do? What must I do? I answer the cry with one of my own. Beseech me, O Everything, O Nothing! Wrap me in your infinite arms, hold me close to your warm Middle, and make me One!
As I rise from me knees, I'll raise my head and look above, waiting for a drop of rain, waiting for a tear. Sometimes, the drop will fall, often it doesn't. But no matter, I always feel one fall, and I'll check the potential for tangible evidence, usual give up, quit, walk on.
And who knows where I'm going? All I know is that I want to go there.
All I know is, that, I want to go there.
The best way that life (in the broadest sense of the word) has been described to me as that of a river. All forms of existence are like currents in the great Lifestream of the universe, all pushing each other forth from different angles creating ripples, waves, all reacting in order to create the present. But how we set ourselves apart from the other currents? Where do all these reactions come from? The moral, or rather the set of morals known as “the code” by which we direct ourselves through this world creates the different twists and bends that separate us from one another, make us unique. Depending on the fluidity of that code, life’s journey can be full of rocky bottoms and treacherous waterfalls or a peaceful float through the various cosmic energies of the world. At least that’s how I’ve seen it look so far. If my “moral theory” is correct, in the future I’m liable to claim that all goings-on in the Universe are governed by a Great Spook in the Sky that dishes out salvation and punishment based solely on Its Divine Knowledge that we, as lowly humans, will never understand. I guess Forrest was right, you really never do know what you’re going to get next. So far my river is heading to adulthood, toward the ocean where a new life begins. I am ready to embrace it but I’m not sure how to approach it yet. But hopefully the moral guidelines I have set for myself well somehow lead me towards the horizon of that ocean and perhaps help me to make peace with the flow of the universe.
The first tenet in my moral code (or “flowology” as its better expressed) is to always try to learn from my mistakes. One cannot expect a harmonious passing if one allows the bumps and bends in the river of life to “slow your flow”, so to speak. Those nooks are what give you character and allow you to flourish as you progress down the stream. For example, the waters of a river cannot become stuck on a jagged rock or a fallen tree. Instead, it ultimately conquers all of its obstacles with its fluidity. So when I make a mistake, I try and see it as a rock or a log; maybe daunting, but never damning.
My second tenet is to make sure my eyes are always open, for each twist and turn brings you to a new scene, a new area in which you are enriched with the opportunity to fill yourself with its sights and insights. When you were born, you were thrown into a constantly progressing existence in which every moment, moments too numerous to calculate, are completely sovereign and unique of one another. And to think! In any given moment, therein lies a wholly new experience from which we may gain a new knowledge that was once impossible to achieve up! When we were created, we developed mental tools by which we make sense of the external phenomena that persists all over our existence. We call these tools “time” and “space”. Instead of allowing the often overwhelming flow of constantly progressing existence, we peer through the looking glasses of both time and space so that we can comprehend such infinity. With this comprehension, we can refer to and reflect upon certain strokes of time so that we may perfect them in our minds and prepare ourselves for unconceived phenomena (aka “the future”). It is very important for me to take the time to reflect upon the various experiences of my life in order to find the hidden wisdom within each instance.
The third tenet of flowology is the acknowledgement of the universal law of cause and effect, or “karma” if we want to get trendy. I believe that all matter and all phenomena is comprised of different flavors of positive and negative energies, and these energies effect the outcome of each moment. Think of it as the math equation that sums up all of existence. All things are moved and fluxed by the laws of cause and effect. This law is what keeps the universe in motion. Each action plays off of the previous one, creating an endless chain of reactions and each reaction is determined by the polarity of the previous one. I also believe that there is nothing that can be imagined that may be exempt from the law of cause and effect. Salmon, crabs, rocks, gods, and senators are all subjected to the effects of karma.
My fourth tenet is to accept every responsibility that the life I live requires. I am charged with the consequences of every one of my actions, knowing that I perpetrated each one of my own will, regardless of the influence placed upon it. I find choosing to take the time to search for some sort of external culprit for every little problem that occurs is too time consuming. And remember! Every moment is full of hidden wisdom, so why waste time trying to find the bad guy? You just have to accept that there really is no bad guy; there’s only you.
The fifth and final tenet of my moral code is to always keep in sight the horizon that awaits us at the end of our passage through this stage of reality. Humanities biggest fret is the spooky “unknown”. The word alone sends a sort of itchy impulse through the brain, one that we must give our all to conquer and satisfy. Death, God, space and things of that nature all exist in a realm that we have either spent our lives trying to discover or have completely abandoned. All simply because, we can not put such things in a box and stick it in a designated areas called “death”, “God”, and “space” in our brains. In short, we cannot accept death and God as they are; unknown. Our existence is made much clearer when we can accept all the ways in which the Lifestream flows, allowing the unknown to be unknown just as you allow the known to be known. The numbers are all there, even if you can’t really find a way to say they are. The proof is in the puddin’, so to speak.
As I see it now, the Lifestream I have expressed is the form by which all existence is modeled after. By working to attain the qualities expressed by that model using the five tenets listed above, I continue sailing my vessel through the new territories of life. Ultimately, flowology looks to teach the doctrine of “fluidity”: the ability to clearly perceive the constantly progressing phenomena around us. Of course, such abilities must always be worked on and are never really mastered. But so long as one allows the mind to flow freely through all walks of life, the current can take over and hustle you back to wherever it is you came from.
I A mistake is made when one assumes that a fragment falling freely will find its friend at the end of its fragile frame. Nothing is there but edges and blood. What? Edges and blood. Now, concrete is more welcoming then home. What a loss! Will we find it again? II I had a lover once that lived in a well. I never saw her face. But that was fine, I loved her all the same. I would often sit at the top and peer into the depths, not seeing her but feeling her. I loved her very much. She died the other day. Hypothermia. I didn't know it at the time, but all the while I was watching her die. Fuck me, right? I miss her a lot. III Kill everything. Kill it all. Why not? Let's burn the world. This life has a self-destruct button built in, and I'm gonna fucking push it. Would you want to see that? Would you watch the multi-colored spectrums exploding all around, capturing fleeting souls and carting them off to some cosmic prison in the depths of Godknowswhere? Can you imagine the idols aflame, synchronized with our demise? Let's see it! Let's make it! Let us level this world! Let us make it flat! IV gibber gabber gibber gibber gibber wibber libber gabber i cant find home i need sleep where is my home please help meeeeeee aaaaaaa taki waki locki focki gibber wibber gibber gabber im cold and hungry and i need rest CAN YOU HEAR ME IM SPEAKING wabba jabba lava monsta a mouth full of blood a heart pumping mud i cry out to earth for giving this birth i cry out to heaven for my soul that is seven V (a knock at the door) (a vision of Saul) (his children where lost) (so is he) (Saul the Impaled, you are me)
Ira sat in the Buick, puffing patiently on a cigarette. His eyes searched the hollowed park before him. He would know when he saw him.
...Lucrum Punice Mammon dicitur...
Ira's eyes shone when he saw the man, El Cruz. His freshly shaven scalp shone mockingly in the sun, rudely radiating its magnificance into the flinching passer-by's. Ira's sight narrowed as he locked his vision on this walking atrocity, this Strutting Abomination that stalked before him. El Cruz swung a newly polished briefcase as he strolled the lonely park, a smug smirk perched daintly on his thin lips. But what was it that possessed him to put forth such a pleasant demeanor, Ira implored his conscience. This man is guilty as far as Ira was concerned. He threw his cigarette out of the ajar window and opened the heavy door of the Buick. Reaching behind the drivers seat, Ira produced a sawed-off shotgun, each barrel loaded with God's Judgement. El Cruz was alerted by the sudden smell of smoldering wood that filled his nostrils. There eyes met in a clash of unspoken energies.
No....NO!
Yes.
Ira approached El Cruz, who had been immobilized with fear. As Ira towered over him, El Cruz fell on his back and shielded his face with his briefcase.
Please....no.....NOT YET!
You no longer have a choice. You must be reminded of the feel of the Hand of God.
With one smooth and fluid moment, Ira pumped the chamber of his fearsome weapon and delivered both shells into the awaiting viscera of El Cruz. Ira stood before the tattered remenants of El Cruz and looked into his eyes before falling into them. Within, he found himself in a great hall, decorated generously with riches beyond human comprehension. Ira, unsure of himself, stood still. As he took a step forward, his vision flashed and he at once saw the throne of Mammon. The demon was perched on a seat of blood and filth of unspeakable depravity. All around him, the greedy clamoured over one another, reaching out to him, begging for a share in his evil riches. They clawed, scratched, and teethed at each other for an opportunity to stroke the feet of Mammon, but the demon only stared straight into Ira's eyes. The fiendish smile that was smeared across Mammons fat face shook Ira to his core, and he was overwhelmed with fear. Ira tried to run, but found he could not. Transfixed in the glare of demon, Ira could only watch with tears in his eyes the horrifying scene before him. In the hall before Mammon, Ira fell to his knees and looked humbley to heaven. Light shone and enevolped the scene in a flash of warm brilliance, and Ira found himself standing before the mirror of his own home. He then went to his bed to lie next to his lover, and wept silently until the sun rose.
"Honey, I really think you should come inside. You're scaring me."
The words clanked solemnly on shields of distraction that protected this mystic moment.
Deus est rex rgis. Deus est totus. Deus est nex.
His hands, ridden tremulous with awe, reached humbly up to heaven. "I see! Oh Lord, I see!" He then crumbled to the earth.
Ilias awoke in a green vista, wind-swept and hog-washed. His feet soon fell into a trance, and they led him over many flat miles. In the distance he noticed the landscape change and as he approached, he found the land before him covered with towering pillars of white. He walked among them, running his fingers over the cold exterior. On each pillar was a name wriiten in a script that he never knew he could read. Each one told Ilias of the unspeakable acts which they had commited, and he knew he was in God's Moor.
"The Holy Trinity greets you, young Ilias."
Before him towered the humbling figure of St. Michael. His skull was rounded perfectly, no hair ever having graced his scalp. The angels eyes were wide and omnipotent, staring forth from the keep of his sunken hollows. The flesh clung tightly to his figure. He wore a plain, white robe and his feet were clothed with cloth wrappings.
"You know why We have summoned you."
Ilias did.
"You know of the duty which has been mandated to you by the Holy Monarchy."
How is this poss-
"From this moment on, whether it be in Heaven or on Earth, you shall be known as Ira, and your duty shall be to the destruction of God's conspirators. Go and fill these plains with the Damned."
He left.
an open plain
a blanket sky
a hollow ground
You Are Alone
You Are Alone
You Are Alone
(.........)
the cold winds freeze my snot
the amoebas chew my gizzards
the Winter Sun shines greatly
and that's alright with me
The faint smell of green liguid trails behind him. He carries a black briefcase filled with documents, files, reports. Important things. With hist other hand, he feeds himself his breakfast; a Marbarlo Light. Quitting's a bitch. Oh well.
As he walks, he concerns himself with the various urgencies of his bourgeoise life. Christ, I need to finish those reports today. I swear to God, if Smith gets that fucking promotion because of a couple reports.....I hope Johnathen remembers to get that letter to his teacher. I'm sick of these fucking parent-teacher conferences. Shit, I hope Alice remembers to pick up my tux for the wedding. I should probably call and remind her. Ah fuck, I'm not gonna have enough cigarettes to last me all day! Cock sucking, mother fucking goddamn-
He looks up, the other reliable vessels that walk the street brushing lightly on all sides. Standing on a fire escape is a woman clothed only in a bedsheet. Her hair is long, dark, and beautiful. She smokes and smiles at the assembly line at her feet. He watches her awhile, forgetting everything else. The sun bathes her in its glory, and he knows the cool morning air must smell much nicer from up there
He watches the young lover and he knows what she must be thinking up there. He watches her watching the funny parade of job holders, bill payers, home owners beneath her, and he knows she must be thinking, "How silly they all seem! How amusing!"
Then, somwhere in his consciousness, he slams his briefcase against the cold concrete, sending papers into an analytical whirlwind. Furiously, he begins to shout.
"You think your so safe up there, don't you !? You think your so much better than us ants down here! You think your more human then us, huh?! Goddamn you, you cheap whore! Why are you worth more then me?! Goddamn you, goddamn you! I love too, damnit! I feel! I'm human! Don't you get it?! We're on the same side, you condescending bitch! You may be winning this cruel game, but not for long! You'll end up like us, goddamnit! You'll end up just like us!"
A circle around him has formed as he shakes his fists and spews his speech at the young lover on the fire escape. He finds a stone and throws it at the girl, her smug and knowing smirk having long been replaced by wide-eyed and animalistic terror. he screams and screams, making a desperate case for his humanity until he decides to leave his fantasy and continue his procession.
He takes a few steps.Tears well up in his eyes, but he quickly silents them with the sleeve of his suit. He takes a few more steps and tries to distract himself with thoughts of his next meal.
Today, as I stand before all of you during this, the most mournful of occasions, I mus admit that I am not here with any of you. Today, I am not here to comfort or console you. I am not here today to remember and to celebrate the life that she lived. I am not even in a land of reminiscence where I am would be free to hold and to love her once more. Today, these places do not exist for me. Instead, I am walking aimlessly through the Void, calling my lover back to me in vain. Ever since her death, I have wandered this white desert yelling, screaming, crying out her name, calling her back to life. But alas, she is lost to the Almighty, and there is nothing I can do.
Looking into her casket, she seems to be at peace, perhaps even just sleeping. I am sure some of you today have thought the same and wished it were true. One of deaths greatest cruelities is that which it leaves behind rather than what it takes away. But I will tell you all today that she is not sleeping, nor is she at peace. She is neither awake nor in some sort of limbo. She is dead. Again I say it; she is dead.
Not but last night was I visited by God. He had an ancient and gnarled face. He also leaned heavily on an ashened staff and wore large, dark robes. He stared at me, mocking my grief and my sorrows. I asked Him, "Where is my lover? Show me where she is!" As I worded this, He cackled a condescending laugh and produced a chalice. He offered it to me and I peered inside. When I witnessed the contents of cup, I saw that it was filled with water that made no reflection. There was only black. I continued to stare into the cup until I realized my eyes were open and I was staring at the ceiling of my room. I wept until sunrise.
I know many people that waste their lives away trying to find the meaning on the purpose or the answer to it all. That night, the answers to those questions were revealed to me and I have suffered since. God is death, or rather Death is God, and that is all there is. What purpose can you find in a life where Death is the only certainity? Death is the prupose of life. Death is the answer to life.
While she still lived, I thought of her as mine and I as hers. I thought I had given her my heart and my soul, and I thought she had done the same. But now, as I look upon her still face, I realize that God has shown me that nothing belongs to anyone, that All belong to Him. His reach is all-enveloping, and we are all truly at His mercy.
In this world, there are few things that have been able to forfill me. In fact, I have spent most of it a hollow shell, waiting to be filled with the things of life. I walked this earth as a sort of spectre, lonely and lost, thirsting for that refreshing, soul-quenching breath of life. Those that I encountered inj my soulless animation appeared to me much the same: waiting rather than living. I my hopeless eyes, I saw everything as an empty institution. Nothing meant anything to me. I was a sorry and guilt-ridden nihilist with no excuse for my existence.
Then a light, so pure and satisfying, shone upon me, illuminating the hollow cell were my heart once floundered in despair. It is hard to describe. Rapture is the only word that may come close. That ultimate, all-encompassing salvation that has the power to give life where you once thought none could flourish. All wishes, all earthly desires swept clean and replaced with something far greater. She was so filled with this thing called life. She was a lover, a writer, a painter, a giver. She was a burning bush, an oracle, a muse. She was everything, everything! But now, she is nothing.
Where there was once a life so filled with itself, now appears empty, as if it were never there before. And here lies Gods true nature, made bold and apparent to all. So stoic and mathmatical is He in His judgement! He appears before us a totally objective and acatelepic entity with little care for that which is lost in his condemnation. Thus is the relationship between us and God; We are the Creators where He is the Destroyer. And O, what He has destroyed! He was aviscerated everything! My lover is dead. What is there left to say? My lover is dead and I am all alone in this world.
"Are you alright?" a voice sounded in his consciousness. A cold, yet gentle hand took his, and he looked into green eyes.
"Yeah. I'm fine. I just need a second," he croaked. "I don't mean to upset you."
"Christ, don't apologize! I mean, your dad just-" but she caught herself. Ilyena. Innocent bringer of war. She was a beautiful girl.
Ilias turned to look out the window once again. They approached their house. A small and humble dwelling nestled softly in the comforts of the suburbs. It was neither him nor her that could afford it. It was Ilias's father that insisted that they live there at his expense. That rotten, old motherfucking-
"Um, are you coming in?"
"Oh, sorry. I didn't realize-" Ilias eyes widened and his body began to shake. There, in the neatly trimmed lawn of the house, stood towering at least 10 stories high, a great monolith. A solid black with a single inscription: a cross with the words "monstrum in fronte, monstrum in animo" written around it.
"Jesus Christ! What the fuck is that thing?"
"Um, what is what?"
"That fucking...pillar! Didn't you notice it?!"
She turned and looked, but saw nothing. "Maybe you should just come in and lie down..."
Fucking Christ, why can't some normal people ride the bus?
Fucking Christ, why can't I be more accepting of the people on the bus?
Fucking Christ, why am I such a goddamn attention whore?
Fucking Christ, what the hell is that smell?
Fucking Christ, I have to pee.
Fucking Christ, why won't they talk to me?
Fucking Christ, what a prick.
Fucking Christ........
What the fuck?
What the hell's going on?
I think I'm in love.....
Lost at sea, lost at seaaaaaaaaa.
I can't fucking STAND it anymore! WHAT THE FUCK!!!
I just want to die....I just want to fucking die.
Shit, I still have to pee.
Fucking Christ, what a fucking mess.
Finally...it's hot outside.
- Mood:
exanimate - Music:Tangled Up In Blues - Bob Dylan
Let us, for a brief moment, shed our mortal coils and step inside God. What can you see? Are there answers for you? Are there choices? Is there law, order, justice? Is there EVERTHING?!
Is there ?
What is there anywhere?
Is there?
- Mood:
dirty - Music:"Visions Of The Sea" - Elf Power
