Quarts in Session

In a state of repose and yet I reside in the bEAST HEARTfjord, she sleeps sullenly in the balmy blitz of the new years nascency. If Indian Summer squats his hind quarters on the month of October, the month of January is usually where he kicks the warm moist excrement.

Alas, it seems as if he is still shitting taking away my excuse to be miserable, making me merely the malcontent they knew I was in the beginning. Maybe my true colors will run in the wash, when the upcoming weeks dash a sprig of Winter with an open hand slap; upon my utterly supine subservient subsistence.

Every gig henceforth will pay me like a substitute, reaching strains. Teaching pains, taut muscles fail. As I am aft the leech sail, too far away to bail my pale in comparison is comprised of a smattering of Podunk epithets, divorced from their urbane uncles due to an irreconcilable difference in guttural utterance

Fuck this shit. Translation I am tired.

Put your own fingers on the bow to tie this one up.