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Now that his glockenspiel days were safely behind him, Emil was free to roam the land.
June 8, 2006 at 9:01 AM ::
the scrine thing is truly become quicksand, like the sand between my toes after i stole the netherscrine hour for myself and layed on the beach writing a big long narrative that i don’t yet have the time to transcribe- instead of looking it up of course, i’m going to make up my own definition and say it’s the story you had to tell about the glock in the bedroom closet before the cops would set you free?
goliard on 06/08/06 at 09:10 AM ::
Now that you’ve said this, I was beginning to think that the appearance of a glock was becoming a reoccurring theme of mine. For a moment there, I recalled another sentence of mine involving gun play, closets, and something or someone being set free.
But I’m okay. It wasn’t a glock, but an AK-47. Different sentences completely.
Keith on 06/08/06 at 09:15 AM ::
Friends don’t let friends drive Glockenspiels. Therefore I’m taking your keys away.
Jo on 06/08/06 at 03:34 PM ::
Nonono! This is a glockenspiel, dears.
Snow on 06/09/06 at 08:38 AM ::
ah, thank you snow, how infomational.
goliard on 06/09/06 at 10:07 AM ::