These people would talk about anything: what drugs he's doing, what party should they were at when she told him about the rape, anything. Keep me distracted. Keep me distracted. Keep me distracted.
The air comes funneling out of the vent in my wall and it's too clean and new to be Lynchian like it should be. Maybe in a couple years.
We ate the Wendy's and then hotboxed his car. Dave threw up. We ate a bunch of xannies. Xavier and Thomas blacked out.
On the streets, at night, Bob stabs a woman, just 'cause.
This is not the the end. Wait, I guess it is.
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