“ The Wall “ Is My Favorite Floyd Album, Even Though Darkside Is Probably Better It Speaks To Me

The Buddha teaches us that life is suffering, to live is to suffer, because to live is to need, and to need is to suffer, and to be enlightened is to be free of need, of suffering, the Buddha teaches that the point of life is to live long enough to realize the point of living is to get ready to be dead longer, let go of need and consciousness, and accept it.

After 30 years, I totally understand this notion, it's already more than enough, not that most humans drive me the fuck up the wall or anything,  Kisses, love you...

I never get tired of reposting this. Every quote you see above are actual texts from the Bible itself. These are just a few examples of the gruesome stuff your pastor never tells you about.

Who says Germans arent poetic

All Things Remain Much the Same

You know what I LOVE about reformed junkies and what not?  even without the junk they’re still awesome at only talking about themselves, their problems, and things relating to them, its good to know suckin ya own metaphoric dick aint contingent on a needle.  They’ve learned alot...through Jesus....

( dies laughing )

Here’s a realistic song about Junkies, I say realistic because it doesn’t glorify it or belittle said people, it’s written from first hand observation and is well, a damn decent song in general...

Do not sleep under a roof. Carry no money or food. Go alone to places frightening to the common brand of men. Become a criminal of purpose. Be put in jail, and extricate yourself by your own wisdom

Miyomoto Musashi

I think tumblr proves you dont need substance, but tits, even tits you’re never gonna touch, sell super, super well...how, cartoony.

The previous night brodie dreams hes in a jail the size of a continent, rolling hills of barbed wire, he dreams that the inmates sleep stacked like firewood wrapped in shroud, on different levels of raised platforms in one open room, he dreams of a rec time only held on the roof, men marching in circles, he can see the snow laden fields housing a grizzly sea of endless rooftops.  He watches the smoke roll out of the chimneys and crash to the ground as he feels the cold play xylephone with his bones.  The smoke below joins and dances in a wispy procession of some grotesque marching orgy, it smells of salt and rust.  He dreams of scaling down the wall  and sneaking off, dreams of draining small amounts of his blood into stolen jars, he buries each only elbow deep in the frozen ground with a stone hes named pell mell.  he dreams he cuts off a finger here, and a toe there, with a single stolen knife from the kitchen and hides them in various locations, so that when he dies his spirit can recall his steps and rebuild his mortal coil.  He dreams of a great tube fluttering down from the sky, driven into the ground on one end with force, he sucks on the other end and siphons the sickly pink hued souls of unrest through the tube into a coffee can.  The coffee can fills too full and the slime spurts out with such force it flings him high into the air, as the land comes crashing forward, he wakes.