The Fryhole

To be a god, or not to be a god, that is but the moment when all man settles down and cries like the little girls that they are.  but what a mome3nt of time of doom, to the soothing sounds of the beat and love thy death cows, to the deep of the morticians hand as they rip the eyes form my dead body, perchance to dream, perchance to see, see me now, tears tears that flow from the emtpy sockets of my soul.

This entry was posted on Friday, December 29th, 2006 at 3:28 am and is filed under A Room with a Moose. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.