So, I went to this place today for an iced tea with my kitsch and ended up being a part of an artist meet up. It was good. Very artistic. I guess. Writers, poets, painters, sketch artists, illustrators, organisers and much more. It made me think who is an artist? I think they should dutch some money, go to a cheap 90s Bar, order a good, fine whisky and then talk. Met this guy who wishes to go to Varanasi to know about death. Strange. He should also drink up. As they say, don’t die curious, you should not die sober also.
I think everybody is an artist, a painter with their own canvases, a writer with their own paper in their hand with miseries and vulnerabilities to spit on it, a sketch artist to draw the character they have been carrying in their heads since 1999.
For me, I just drink, listen to music, think about women and free fallin’.
I want an open field. I want to go all the way in. Put every inch on the verge. For I know, when I will do that, magic will happen.
Anyway, let’s talk about something else.
How do you cross the boundaries of the world, break the shackles of this society to love someone? Think about it. Get me an answer.
Now I’d like to take your leave. I know it’s too early, haven’t given you my style of anecdote but the woman says, she’d like to take me home, country roads, unzip my pants, make me sit on a wooden chair, tease me with her boobs and suck my dick. I pissed her off today. I threw some water on her face and now she wants to spit on my weiner. God bless me. God bless my balls.
By: Rocket Man