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Pretty close to 51 years ago I lived in a place much like this and fell through the ceiling one rare Sunday while trying to hide an empty one of these in the attic.
All fateful concoctions aside, if the Sombrero fit, you must acquit.
Pretty close to 51 years ago I lived in a place much like this and fell through the ceiling one rare Sunday while trying to hide an empty one of these in the attic.
All fateful concoctions aside, if the Sombrero fit, you must acquit.
I was blessed with my mother's ability to embrace, and my father's ability to endure.
So soon the trees bend and the flowers kneel. The leaves, they fall, wherever they will...
After my father's passing some years ago I wore his plastic FALL RISK bracelet without removing it until the words and color wore off; unbeknownst to me then to somehow aggrandize his suffering in my heart so I would never forget. In the end it was held together with string and staples. The bracelet, not my heart. Or is it?
Why would a man (me) do such a thing to himself? Nearly now deconstructed, I can't articulate my answer, only my resolve.
A finished life is never really finished, I found. But why do we insist on hurting ourselves by hurting each other when Love is always there for us? Answer me, Bryan with a why...
The AI had the rope coming out of the car's right eyeball so I had to fix that, but the texture and details were pretty cool. My first try I just said "animal" and it gave me Mickey Mouse so I said "horse" and that didn't work out but 3rd time's a charm.
I had ChatGPT draw an illustration for me and it's crazy good.
"funny color cartoon image of cartoon dog straining to pull a car with a rope that's attached to the car's front bumper. Ub Iwerks style art"
I've begun to recognize the true pale, and when I've traveled beyond it. I often feel like a
familiar old pickup truck; scratches here, dents there. Occasionally ripped in the seat and cracked in the dash. Pulp under the hood. Brass radiator. Shaggy brakes. Maypop treads. Golden memories...
I've begun to recognize the true pale, and when I've traveled beyond it. I often feel like a
familiar old pickup truck; scratches here, dents there. Occasionally ripped in the seat and cracked in the dash. Pulp under the hood. Brass radiator. Shaggy brakes. Maypop treads. Golden memories...
