Lolk

[Boogus Epirus Aurelius]

This is the story of the girl in the booth downtown.

Now, my recollection is shifty and the witnesses are all drunks, but I can piece together the pieces that need to be pieced and peaced; these are tales of immediate heartache and regret, but nothing matters besides the stolen purse, so that's what I'm here for.

St Judes is a catholic parish down on montgomery ave and blind street, the two best named streets in town.  The corner is a catholic orgy; faux roman statues, christ bleeding from hands by the means of long iron and the stations, represented firmly by nodes that descended into summer shadows. The summer cathedral is a leaky norse ruin inhabited by homeless freaks and overweight parishioners.  
And then there's laura. She's a real estate agent gone rogue; a former high school dope fie4nd who tore her crummy life apart and started peddling real estate. I saw her face in the paper and I couldn't hold it all in. She's managing a catholic estate in a midland wisconsin hovel of parishioners.
I see people how they were, quiet and dead set, sucking smoke down a glass pipe and disappearing into a cornfield; How shitty. She's accomplished, overcoming the heavy walls and shambles.

So there's a fake kohl's purse dangling from a bar stool. A white faux leather pass full of credentials. There's her face, uncertain and wavering. There's a pocket full of transparent slides of family and close friends.
I'll hand it off every time and she'll always drop it. An apartment above main, a loud street in a quiet town when you could get away with everything.
She was desperate when she lost it. More desperate when she would find it. How do you even cope with the less than day by day?
She will be okay.

[YPrrrr]

Have you ever tried to author something for publication

[ncba93ivyase]

This is the story of the girl in the booth downtown.

Now, my recollection is shifty and the witnesses are all drunks, but I can piece together the pieces that need to be pieced and peaced; these are tales of immediate heartache and regret, but nothing matters besides the stolen purse, so that's what I'm here for.

St Judes is a catholic parish down on montgomery ave and blind street, the two best named streets in town.  The corner is a catholic orgy; faux roman statues, christ bleeding from hands by the means of long iron and the stations, represented firmly by nodes that descended into summer shadows. The summer cathedral is a leaky norse ruin inhabited by homeless freaks and overweight parishioners.   
And then there's laura. She's a real estate agent gone rogue; a former high school dope fie4nd who tore her crummy life apart and started peddling real estate. I saw her face in the paper and I couldn't hold it all in. She's managing a catholic estate in a midland wisconsin hovel of parishioners.
I see people how they were, quiet and dead set, sucking smoke down a glass pipe and disappearing into a cornfield; How shitty. She's accomplished, overcoming the heavy walls and shambles.

So there's a fake kohl's purse dangling from a bar stool. A white faux leather pass full of credentials. There's her face, uncertain and wavering. There's a pocket full of transparant slides of family and close friends.
I'll hand it off every time and she'll always drop it. An apartment above main, a loud street in a quiet town when you could get away with everything.
She was desparate when she lost it. More desparate when she would find it. How do you even cope with the less than day by day?
She will be okay.

cool story