Do I even have to explain myself. Probably not, and I don't think I'll try. I can't explain anything, really, except make shitty observations about things. Like, "Oh yeah, I'm the first person ever who has seen this one unique fact about this mass-produced pen that I'm looking at right now". It's also like when you wear a monocle out, and people approach you and say, "Why are wearing a monocle?" And all you can think of to say is "'Cause it's fucking awesome, uh, hyuduh." Because you really don't even need to explain yourself, you stupid son of a bitch.
Moving on: so alright, I'll explain a little something: how does thought make sense? Because that means fucked up thoughts make even less sense. Holy shit come on. Thought? Explain yourself please.
You know what I'm thinking? What's next. And I don't know, man.
And this brings us to "Primo Kebab." The true crux of the matter. Does it need to be explained? Maybe we ought to explain what it symbolizes. To us, it symbolizes everything's good, everything's gonna be just fine because we're happy. Primo Kebab is a sock filled with rice and oil that you can heat up and put on your neck; it's sitting on a bench and realizing how much sky there is; it's looking at something and saying "Well, why not? Nothing bad can happen!"
Where to? Where to? Southwest! Take us southwest, captain!
What scares me is the thought of more knowledge. There's so many things to be known. We really don't know anything, when you think about it.
Estamos llegando.
h's & k's
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