04-16-2002, 04:15 PM
Home was a condominium on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise, a sort of filing cabinet for widows and young professionals. The marketing brochure promised a foot of concrete floor, ceiling, and wall between between me and any adjacent stereo or turn-up television... a foot of concrete was important when your next-door neighbour lets the battery on her hearing aid go and has to watch her game shows at full blast. Or when a volcanic blast of burning gas and debris that used to be your living-room set and personal effects blows out your floor to ceiling windows and sails down flaming to leave just your condo, only yours, a gutted charred concrete hole in the cliffside of the building.
<img src=http://images.andale.com/f2/115/104/6485603/1054786652163_heyladiRed2.jpg>
Do that voodoo that you do, so well ~>
HITTING BOTTOM ISN'T A WEEKEND RETREAT! IT'S NOT A SEMINAR! ONLY AFTER YOU'VE LOST EVERYTHING ARE YOU FREE TO DO ANYTHING! YOU SEE, YOU LISTEN, BUT YOU DON'T GET IT! YOU HAVE TO FORGET EVERYTHING YOU KNOW, EVERYTHING YOU THINK YOU KNOW!
Do that voodoo that you do, so well ~>
HITTING BOTTOM ISN'T A WEEKEND RETREAT! IT'S NOT A SEMINAR! ONLY AFTER YOU'VE LOST EVERYTHING ARE YOU FREE TO DO ANYTHING! YOU SEE, YOU LISTEN, BUT YOU DON'T GET IT! YOU HAVE TO FORGET EVERYTHING YOU KNOW, EVERYTHING YOU THINK YOU KNOW!