you get to feeling uptight, and wish you were feelin alright. And you know you're white and you ain't got no soul and there's no one with a hole nearby.
and therefore in your teenage madness and delirium you toss and turn in yo ur sweaty little grey teenage sheets, in that little room with the psychadellic posters and the red bulb and the incense and your bead collection and your country song round up books. and you cry your tiny sick tears.
tiny sick tears...
yes frank zappa. i know sometimes. we know.
also, Rose Like Thunder chapter one just posted - by the by :)