the point
Ok. Maybe we are. Let me recheck
: Shalke social center with Whyatt, Lewis (renamed slap from here until the end of time) stuck to the ass of journalists to drive them where we want it to go, Strongale university. The results of the letter should reach out by the hour. There are, we are operating, we are on the piece.
And I'm drunk at the office. Already in the office. Even at home, clinging to an electric stove as if it were my wife, damn you central heating. I live watching the fucking cork board, clearing your throat just because I do not know what to say. I do not know to whom. yesterday I went around the city, holed up in this cold house holds a lot of people, better for me. I slipped through the streets and alleys astride a dodge, that gives us the department, until you get to a place called fucking Ugly Doll House . Guess what? a brothel. Who knows why I did that strange effect. Neon pink and red, red lights from the windows, no shame for the merchandise. Christ that shit. Even more shit that pervades, not effect me. None. Once my conduct could have been as well jump in feet pushing back his chair and screaming for attention. The truth is that it starts to give a damn no more shit. Of the people, their colleagues, of the child. I turned, posed questions, stuck his nose. Drinking. Nothing could be done, I'm back in the office to finish the job with the red label that I left behind, in the archives, close to the pills. This place will kill me. Fuck, kill me.
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