hey 19

there's nineteen in (saved from loss) words on a machine somewhere in the sprint factory voicemail earth and coming down, they're all from you.and oh more without auto-deleters and losing things is o easy when life is taking them away. i lay here, nights gornw lonely cold without you where or why: strange satisfied smile stretches cheeks and listen straight through to you: then pull back and forward choose a favorite from the mud.

usually:
whisky morning voice, the four or five that say "this message has no real but point but...", or "i justed wanted to say hello, so, i don't know, give me a call..."

2003-11-25 | 6:47 p.m.
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