Letter Community Service

These are the books I've read this year, which should be whipped.

39. Matador: New Peruvian writer. December 1922.
40. Stories. ETA Hoffmann. December 1926.

not recommend the first. Masturbation pump is available only to Wildean archetypes. Course is now allowed.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS !
who offends no happiness.

I leave it to Billy Bilo. Because

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I get to spit running out of air freshener. The month I ran out I spent an ass of deodorants.

Have you noticed that the role of cigarettes can be used as clothing? Ni cagando

reluctant to be worn as clothing.
boots
When the smoke look like a very old turtle. Watch as you move your head.

The best writers never write the "ja ja ja." They just say 'these idiots ... they looked and laughed. " O 'Socrates smiled. "

O sing songs Libertines.

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The bands that played weren’t terrible.

Morrie and I were at the park, where we were supposed to make a transaction. But things went awry, at first nobody answered and then we missed three calls, so we called Peanut ma’ boy, who’d surely have something.

He did.

But he was already there, with M. and her boyfriend, and we had to run if we wanted much of anything. I had thirty Peruvian soles on me – souls , if you allow me to misspeak, which had to last me the evening. Now this was possible. The gods had fought against me, and now for me. Yet I never said a prayer. Things had turned for the better as they were and I wanted all the joys for myself: they had enough as it was, and I wasn\u0026amp; rsquo; t about to grovel. Fortuna not was treacherous, Merely fickle, and one thing I HAD WAS Learned That Were not perfect gods.

We Took A Bus, Then What felt WAS Walk for three years. The cracked pavement and the street WAS long. There Were signs plastered on the walls, on the road, Showing us the way like a proverbial yellow brick road, and we Followed it, Perhaps slowly, with the sun warming Our Faces. I felt dapper, I had a coat, and Did not like it one bit. It remind me I Was Still Here, But Already That WAS my mind of Alfred Mansfield, the pulp writer. Reality flicker and blurred, feeling all the more disjointed, paradoxical.

It Was the brain Who Made the leap. The body did not. I Took note of this.

M. Was the first person II was jumbling words. I didn’t truly care about the money and thought myself a saint, a mix of Saints Denis and Sebastian.)

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I Barely Knew Ye.

But when I'm drunk I can not stop Saying I love you, man.

And I'm always drunk.

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So we’d gather and smoke in front of our former school, where we peddled drugs to the older students. The tunes we played were urbane yet mediocre – it happened that everything in town was subpar. But we were satisfied with whatever damaged goods we got, and so were they, and nobody felt they had lost.

Smoking made me frail and dismissive. Yet I also grew more attentive to what was happening, to people and their intentions. Intrigues between friends grew to near political proportion. There was always some sort of disagreement about women or money or books. I must say few noticed it with ears and eyes, but the fights sure made a racket.

There were little gestures or tics we could observe: how they looked sideways, spoke quietly and passed it around slowly. Such Were the Times. WAS dark night, But day WAS Bleaker. Some of us we'd Had Become dealers Already Noticed, Not doctors. Business boomer, But we never Healed anybody. And healing

Had Been Our duty from the start, if I dare say so. What is the use of a Missionary poet, if I never Helps a soul? Were we supposed to Aid Them. Not a particular 'theme', But whoever cross Happened to Our Way. And They Came in packs, pero away we sat Them, and Their They Treated us like enemies. I guess we

Our Had earned fame. We Were clear as to What we did do, pero, and we never lied or swindle. Those Were the Days When one tried to Actually Be honorable and managed to. Those days, too, Have Passed, But It Is Enough To Have Lived Them to Understand Their Meaning.

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Would I say, Peter Doherty'sa poet. A decadent, a thinker and a Blithe Spirit.

I Was Certain of His impending death, a creeping scene guided by the baser impulses, unpreventable. It Was So we made the best of What We Had MOST left with him, and Have him sing, write, or speak. Whatever

I liked, as long as it left us something, and we Would Be happy. It secured

The Possibility of Remembering him, in the future, as Though I Were Some philosopher or prophet or saint.

And I WAS.

For, somehow, I pulled through. Through what, I do not know, But It Must Have Been close to everything. Nevertheless I insisted on Those Socratic, insolent airs Had That put him in trouble with

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When was the last I took heroin?

Well, I would never…!

Six-foot-small has been asking things only a mother would ask. He looks at me in mock-worry and raises a single finger.

Have you been doing herowin?

What , I say, but he prattles on.

Is that why you’ve got your arms all covered? It ain’t that chilly no more.

He furrows his brow and spits like an old woman.

You must be coming down hard – not having much fun, are we? Here, pass me the spliff , the spliff is passed to him and he takes a long drag.

Then he hands it to me, and I thi

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HTMLXC I could not expect more from the Internet. It might be of use for things already considered unimportant, but that is its extent. It doesn't feed the soul. Some forget that it is, too, a machine. Man belongs not in the hive or the anthill, but with other men. Make of that what most pleases you. I am to run an errand tomorrow. Maripric and a friend will be there, which is always nice, though I must first check how much money I have on me. It is never much, but there are such events in life we perceive as miracles. Whatever happens, we will be celebrating the premature death of my youth and vitality. My veins are laden with rust and I am most contented. That is what age means.
I saw Morrie two days ago. He was better than I remembered. I suspect he has

Inmate Search Dupage County Jail Books Read in 2010

Evidently, this is a list. I Have Not Been making good use of my time and no, I Have Not Been writing a novel. And yes, I Have Been Exposed To Regularly Apollonian beauty.

1. All Souls. Javier Marias. January 3.
2. The Vampyre. John William Polidori. January 7.
3. Poems in Prose. Oscar Wilde. January 12.
4. Fictions. Jorge Luis Borges. January 16.
5. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Junot Diaz. January 18. Pachamama
6. Club: Anthology brichero story. January 25. Introduction
7. English literature. The Curious Incident
HTMLXC of the Dog in the Night-tim e.
8. Mark Haddon. July 11.
The Music of Chance.
9. Paul Auster. July 15.
Slaughterhouse-Five.
10. Kurt Vonnegut. July 20.
Island.
11. Aldous Huxley.
Bullet Park.
12. John Cheever.
Phaedrus.
13. Plato.
Main.
14. Plato.
Phaedo.
15. Plato.
The Republic.
16. Plato. November 28.
Brave New World Revisited.
17. Aldous Huxley. December 5.
Classic comic: Lucky Luke.
18. Morris, Goscinny. December20.
The Adventures of Augie March.
19. Saul Bellow. December 20.
Matador: New Peruvian writer.
20. December 22.
Stories.
21. ETA Hoffmann. December 26.