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that's not about boys berry, it's sounding a bit like cannibalism. Let coonigan's mental illness distract you from that train of thought. Yes we are all going out of our tiny little minds with coony's poetry prescribed by the cogs, acting like copious cups of Mogadon. We came from the sea and shall return to it like Shelly. Yet now despair itself is mild, even as the winds and waters are, I could lie down like a tired child and weep away the life of care which I have born and yet must bear till death like sleep might steal on me and I might feel in the warm air my cheek grow cold and hear the sea breathe over my dying brain its last MONOTONY. I memorised that just in case I might call on it one lonely day, perhaps a rainy day, where the monotony started to hurt. ![]() |