I rarely wish anymore; I don’t ask for miracles, wait and hope or more like fear, I can’t tell count how many nightmares I’ve endured, but none of any prophecy as of late, yet I wish to go back to bed and turn off and on my lamp. Well Wish Me, Will.
Every time I go to speak, it comes out as a yawn, a tapestry of obscenity or praise for B III; how I wish I could know appreciation for keeping myself alive and all that’s required is taking pills slathered in peanut butter. The Language Of Will
As the song goes, “shut’em down, open up shop,” that’s my life I need to abandon this farce and go for something else and ain’t I writing a book, probably storing energy for an uglier load of trash, Black Friday. Will Be Back Soon