Time Moves Slowly

...when you are alone.

I wish I could write like Colin Meloy from The Decemberists. Every song is a new story.
From July, July!:
And I say your uncle was a crooked French Canadian and he was gutshot running gin and how his guts were all suspended in his fingers and how he held'em, how he held'em, held'em in.

That's disgusting! How did he come up with that?

Or from Red Right Ankle:
This is the story of your red right ankle, and how it came to meet your leg. And how the muscle bone and sinews tangled, and how the skin was softly shed. And how it whispered, oh, adhere to me, for we are bound by symmetry. And whatever differences our lives have been, we together make a limb. This is the story of your red right ankle.

I dunno...it's just so awesome. :)

Also, I've realized that I have a lot of weird dreams. Last night, I dreamt of all the music I had listened to the previous day. It was weird. Oh, and I also dreamt that I had a hippy bf, and he had dreds, but we weren't allowed into a restaurant, because they thought he was high...weird.