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Not once that ah recall. Twenny-eight years – that’s roughly ten thousand laps of a clock-face – Jesus! When ah think that ah’ve sat on mah dumb ass and listened through eighteen million ticks and eighteen million tocks of the idiot-faced clock with nothing to call mah own but a shit-load of time and now, at the hour of mah dying when ah could use a little room – what happens? It’s ‘Move along chucklehead – wind her up, Jack. It’s Let’s get fucken pressing!!
Mah time is nigh. Ah said, hey boss, take up that cross and put on your walking shoes. Yes, you lose, Mister Noose. Today belongs to me!
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Don’t count on your tomorrows. Ah can see them coming and it’s not a pretty sight. The fear is here. Here is the night. Posted pompomio Javier Martinez-Zaporta at