Dear Epistle St. Clean, My name is Cobb Lar and I am looking to score some hugs. Do you know where I can get some? Remember when we listened to the radio? I was smacking my gums about the state of modern music the other day and I thought of you. Feel bad yet? This letter is in response to your theological assumptions. First, GOD DOES NOT EXIST. Do you know what you are saying to the tiny ones? The midget scoops of America are not ready for this. This is not a view that is advertisement approved. Stockholders will be unhappy with ya. We all know the consequences clean clear, profits will go down. Prophets cry when sadness overtakes them on Sunday morning. Good thing I do not belong to any club. I aint no sheep. See ya later Shepherd, CL These ramblings curse like purse thieves. Eating eating eatin e-din eden. Now that we are situated in a comfortable couch let’s play hide and sneak. His name is humorous to me. The past two days have been filled with haunting hums. My dreams involve basketball games. Tiny radios talk to me on the porch in the pitch-dark nocturnal night. How is that? Asking questions is like shouting at a deaf tulip. Ha ha ha. Sounding smart is tougher that you might think. Smooth Player skips on the vinyl love machine as he watches TV. Coaches are roaches in need of some quick death. Smoke ‘em fatty! Aphorisms spasm out of me because philosophy means nothing to no one. Doing damage across language…I mean barriers. Bonus mating techniques found in the gym locker room. This is a lot of brain drain. Once upon a time, delete, the lass was my special beauty. I made no real effort to hide my infatuation. Trumpet that mistake personality disaster memory bank. A voice too many heard like an orator at a comedy club laughed as he dug the wench in the third row. Bored, I asked the funny Greek to throw something at Ed. “Will you film me tonight?” This is a kid’s book. Sneel the peek to pack shaker yr rump doolittle hump…begggggggggg. No, literally a book I stole from some kid. Forget about him. Some jerk with a gap in his grin from a town with no name came riding a southern blue jay up to me and threw his device at the injured cage. “Meow!” Kitty put the middle back so I could write this chapter. Can you imagine every grain of badlands? I was love so I puked this sentence. Opening the jar of tomorrow to find calendar girls all dazed up with no place to snow. Taking showers. Taking take after take. There was lots of crying in silent lots. Painting eyeballs on sculptures from the days of the Greeks. “Hey geek. Clean up that grease spill.” Under the old rule I could never have gotten away with this shit. I was told to stop reading my book and pay attention. I just shrugged. I kept on reading. The math teacher did not want to have sex with her pupils. Eyesight is hindsight my lonely friend. Read little short stories. Got to get away from this pad. Not anymore, she left me here standing in the doorway crying. I can’t very well keep on writing without her, can I? You have won. Funny story, may I lay it on ya? Bad at tempting listeners, I know. Where is my bedside manner? Sloppy garage rockers rattle bones. This is not what you think. Journal keeper. Sleeper trite kitch in the warm oven. Bakesale. Other girls? What flutes in the dreams of great men? About ten other graduates ate pig while I slept on leather. I wrote songs before this book became a problem child. Doc Pomus makes perfect sense. Tunes. Toons. Tons of sweet. A sea breeze black trapdoor might sink us all if we shake rattle and roll. My own disease was named after some raven-haired chick. Clear is my name in other mediums. Enjoy like a strange movie made by some snog snog soon. The twinkle keys piano wings. Yes it does look like rain. Rings left by yesterday take on new meanings. He argued with her through the night. Strange, I thought love was all you need. Pet Sounds makes me cry.