Davidson and intervals

I was outside in Forum, at coffee shop Kalmane. Dead man coughing was stuck up in my ears. I met that random snooty film course guy who was suddenly all warm and chirpy. Nice. Next not knowing what, I actually went to model art shop. The harley davidson model out there is a beauty. It is a genuine piece of enviable elegance and shine. After twenty minutes of admiring all the other vintage pieces inside, touching an Austin convertible's rear carpet and actually holding the seven kg davidson, I left. I watched movie after long time in a multiplex. It got me into full puppy-love frenzy and little excitement. Words should be honest no matter what. Interval and sight of you was enthralling. I was waiting, for you to hop by. The yellow wallpaper scene of tied woman crawling on husband's body to ascertain victory came. I resolved to write to Macchar. In total austerity I read some Theravada. I managed the "a bit queer around here" play. The gay pride parade was playing in the mind. Harley, my boy, when veena plays and that sentiment arouses, old yellow bricks ring and drum, the afternoon weighs on sleep-deprived eyes like a drug. Goodbye