It is Friday: Go dye a sled
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
Try a smirk that is not a smirk.
Nothing shall turn me.
What will happen to our odd photos now? We delete them. We delete them. We delete ourselves.
Drunk like house keys handed over to a youngest son.
Of word-play it has been said that those who most dislike them are those who are least able to utter them.
The nose of a mob is its imagination.
Golden bells! Brass rings!
There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm.
Sleep is a slice of death. I hate it.
Drunk as a famous photo.
Look. Convince yourself not to convince.