Guacamole Terrorists

Red Dress. Here with Pretty Girl inside.

 In the younger times of my life, I was stunned by colors, lights and shades. I was like a little boy in the temple of the celibacy. My thoughts were meaningless and the very deep of my philosophy lied bottomless on the ground of my life, as an empty glass of a Glenrothes single malt in a quiet morning of April. I was alone in the dark. Having no god to hustle, I woke up every morning to pray the Holy Malt for salvation and a full stack of vicodin. « Happiness is on the way baby, just have to kill the pain a little longer ».

Even in the darkest shadows, there is hope. Saying hope, I mean a red dress. A wild scarlet dress, burning as a passionate fantasm in the mind of the peaceful deliquescent pervert we are hiding in our very secret place. She’s sweet, she’s warm, she’s red. As blood can be. I don’t care about the pain anymore. I see the dress. It’s in my mind. In my heart.

Two shots later I’ll be hunting a purple garter anyway.

I can feel it. The tremendous tide of social decadence is coming. I can sense its very flow. Everywhere, everyone. All of us, waiting for something more, something that would never come. They ‘re looking for us to fall. But still, we stand.

Because we know. Where we stand. Where we belong. What flow will sustain us, what flaw will betray us. Here. There. Half a bottle of Lagavulin. The Red Dress.

And we gladly run this dreadful pinnacle. It will break our bones, rip out our flesh, throw us in the deeps. But just for a second, we will find ourselves in this particular place. Where we can believe we finally reached some kind of happiness. Just a moment in this peace looking heaven.
Just before reality hit us like a 36t giant monster truck running at full speed.

« Falling is not for the masses, they’re already on the ground ».