I used to tell myself every day if you wanted to talk to me you’d call me. Now I’m happy you don’t.
Gonna pump up the jam.
“For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can’t readily accept the God formula, the big answers don’t remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.” -Charles Bukowski
Seven years of Sunday secrets. I miss the app.
Fade in to a restaurant in East Texas. There’s a man behind the building trying to get cell phone reception. In the kitchen a group of people gather around a table speaking softly. There are no cooks, no servers, no food. Go further into the restaurant and you’ll see wrought iron, red booths, and family pictures. There are no guests today. In the middle of the room sits one man. He wears a priests collar and a policeman’s badge. In the foyer there is a prayer candle. In the parking lot is a news van with its reporters inside. Fade out.
I think these are the days I’m really going to look back on sometime.