Basically anyone called Anthony, was setting themselves up to be on the bookshelves of every Priory runaway, who ends up in Gweek and preach his not very good Li'l Prince non book...of plenishy splenditude and his silly little one vulnerable little plant representing NOTHING real....
That said indeed a good metaphor for one once finest fulsome rainforest of a mind - she who could 'critically think' stranded there
And poisoned by the lack of any atmosphere around her nana boat - indeed just bad air.
Bein' all actual real Andean postal pilots ever thought of is how one may encourage some fine native to accompany them for the long lonely Night flight...
That after about ten minutes of sitting there with coffee and fag as a health and safety item to keep you awake for the next five hours ahead, wondering at the true zen beauty of naycher at his/her finest... with either a bit of Roches on in the Walkman...
or...
uhh ohhh... i mean someone should have some sympathy for the vulnerable undertakers... imagine a profession where you have to see the worst ugliness ever in all of humanity day after day and sponge them down and maybe even tart up the faded artless swamp of ever ever uglier tattoo art
even really quite old people seem to need to ..i give up
But yes...one night, there was no need for even a decent bouncy dity to pass the time...and get one in the mood
as all of civilisation was theretoo... and all that there ever was....
A Queen... a real one.... the one and only, true modern arty farty Hot Gossip pants...
Just a girl... confused about a very very confused boy... and me her bridge to him, i should have there and then said, nope...we are turnin' back, Im your fuckin captain and in control... and without any words, just your frequency, energy, and lack of falsity, pure human, you have just told me what you NEED...
to stay the safe side of the bridge,
doesnt matter what he puts in your bank
I know when someone doesnt really want it...
