Where Is My Double Life?

shocked and disgusted, they want to hit rock bottom and protect themselves. Apparently there are 2 sides to every story. They never did anything-I never did anything. Sitting down for days strung out on chips and cheese at 12.50 AM. The longing I feel is submerged by carnuba wax. I do not speak to you face to face. I think of you while dishing out the shop talk. Dark eyes and a crumpled look. I want to write like Peter Cetera so I can express myself. We'll have a look to see where he starts from. Somewhere under a railway bridge in a hopeless town with a David Sands and 1200 buzzer entry systems. Whale fever grips the nation but...'sadly she died'...here comes Nutkins. I wasn't the only one who cried. I've cried about you TLK but I couldn't muster it for a campaigning mammal. I get set off by many things -red jerseys, 'Bryter Layter' is my favourite, 'she's a pretty girl', 'I'm a misfit', 'I write my own stories', 'I can't return that', but none of it matches the whale. The theory is that it was knocked off course by a lonely sound. A left garden and a chaotic lifestyle. I won't be back unless you're near. Getting away. No security. I'll go to the bridge. I feel the pressure of Now 37.