Patrick Michael

These moments of stratosphere find the mull of the mill to milton when we mean to vertigo, and valentine when we mean to Gilead, or Genesee, the hill of which Pink Floyd chilled and smoked his last cigarette while watching the roquettes red glare of the tempest, now tamed by the Bluecipher blue horse of the apocalypse, Calypso. All these Rogue signals make international communites wish us well, but only harvest, therefore, our eyelits and the places we hook our grapple to the next anchor. If I could compete with medical, I would, but these recordings I write are reverent for yankee doodle and yanQuixote, the real sam arnold son of a gun, whom may or may not have been living amoung the dead when we found Colorado never to have a colony of mars, as the martian had always told the earthling, china is a bullocks away from our english beatnik sly meant to severn the octagon, and land the time in Beetovan's fifth, a vodka.