Interlude

I was going to write a story with a disgusting first sentence, but then I was listening to Andrew Bird. The music was too pretty for that kind of rotten thought—what a big lie. My head is actually full of those rotten thoughts. I shouldn’t have to think this hard to come up with one twisted action that would nicely start off a story. Andrew Bird keeps singing. His songs are too pretty—damn Damien Rice—it drags me to hell. Oh no no no no no no no wash my head out for me.