Whoa, we need to go on a mission (humanifesto #19)

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Don't let the threat of painful death prevent you from celebrating!

Message to the boy or girl of your dreams or Lost trojan horse. There must be some cartoon from the 1930's where two foreign guys (or aliens, cats, whatever) come to Czechoslovakia and try to get something done.

We're still redefining my definition of fun, so it's hard to tell if we're having a good time. Been horribly depressed today (last two days actually), but hardly much lately. Trying to remember to think about other people/that the world is not about to implode. Suicide is an anachronism, if you really enjoy suicide, you'll stick around for a while.

Realized we were in a one way conversation for the last few years and started a (crossed out), naturally. Nice cage we got here, like pretty birds we feel comfortable in it. Still have vivid dreams of flight (mostly we dream of falling, and remembering to tuck and roll just in the nick of time) however, we (blank) you for your bravery, even without the details of your mission. 

One such dream featured a billboard informing passing cars that 'Writing long love letters is a long trip to hell!'.

We fortunately, are not drivers, nor should this passage be assumed to be anything like a mere ll (if you get my drift).

Sometimes we wonder about the mechanics that allow you to see into our twisted, bruised innards. When we called Stephen Hawking about it, he just shrugged. Is it possible that we can do this gracefully without some measure of deception? [stop, sleep, change gears].

Morning thought... if an asteroid the size of Texas was hurtling at the Earth and we only had like three days until the end, would you have a few hours to spare for us?

So much blood poured out of us yesterday, we couldn't sleep. The trails of marijuana sliced open the most tender sensitive regions of our (smudge of ketchup), and put the finishing touches on an already Corsican sense of ironical harshness.

The kind of vulnerability you love best. 

All of this highlighted by your dearest sister assuring us that she knew how we felt. She knew it would happen for us, although she was forced (at gunpoint we might add) to admit rather blanketly that you were indeed a rare (find) bird. All words lie, we trust only eyes, and bodies that moves like snakes.

It all seemed so daring at first, free f*ckin speech and all. It's not like we're ungrateful, but whoa, we need to go on a mission. It's gonna take six months or more to escape (will the audience still be awake?).

... A deep exploration of why spines tingle.

We are toys in (vibrating) Kinder eggs, surrounded by lousy chocolate. Did we mention (now that we check in the book) that we have tons of free time between 2030 and 2045? L$ve in the time of choler@ [end gravitational stage 2] Parenthesis are the mildly skitsofrenik's best (friend) (or enemy) entertainment value.

If we stop, will they keep sending us offers to become Scientologists? Live from Praha, 1000 police staring at a bunch of sad and stoned punks listening to music that kills the senses; boom, boom, boom. 

A talking head asks an old lady questions to make a soundbite for the 'News', she says the kids are alright, reporter leaves frustrated. Not even a frisbee to brighten the day.

Pig orgasms last 30 seconds... normally.

WE want more photos of you, the 3D glasses help a little but the computer animators need more back and side views (Vaclav said something see-through would help, we wanted to thump him, but as you all know well, taste is subjective). 

We feel like its still communist times and we must censor ourselves, while a talent for BSing is handy for such repressive times, the communists of the heart instil their fear well. Don't lose... ever.

Ciao starlings, catch you on the wing; 2000.

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