Beats in the mini pipe and truth in the photo booth
A wedding ring generates 20 tons of mine waste
That’s how they went along through the pages, cursing and fascinated, and La Maga would always end up curling herself up like a cat in an easy chair, tired of uncertainties, looking at how dawn was breaking over the slate roofs, through all the smoke that fills in among a pair of eyes and a closed window and an ardently useless night.
Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it’s necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?