Frank has just sent me this picture to my e-mail. He is an old friend of mine, a young brilliant lad I met two years ago.
Frank is a loner, so am I, he plays with fire, he's going beyond himself he often says. I can scarcely understand Frank's behavior, He loves Rossini and Albion. I prefer Rachmaninoff and Brahms. Both of us, dwell the murky night. The moon, reddish tonight, hides cunningly behind foggy, milky, dirty clouds. Frank goes beyond himself, I remain still watching the boats sailing away towards the sun, Frank lives in the sun, Frank is made of fire, and plays with it. I left him sail, eternal drafts, dusty, salty winds will push his ship to a circular flame, in which we all shall die.
Frank is a loner, so am I, he plays with fire, he's going beyond himself he often says. I can scarcely understand Frank's behavior, He loves Rossini and Albion. I prefer Rachmaninoff and Brahms. Both of us, dwell the murky night. The moon, reddish tonight, hides cunningly behind foggy, milky, dirty clouds. Frank goes beyond himself, I remain still watching the boats sailing away towards the sun, Frank lives in the sun, Frank is made of fire, and plays with it. I left him sail, eternal drafts, dusty, salty winds will push his ship to a circular flame, in which we all shall die.
Comments
Ouch!!