There are some days, more and more, where I imagine the world ideal. This world would be rid of any intelligent music geek and all landmark, all this crap that we pollute the brain, be it poetry or potted plants.
There would be garage or biker.
It is the drink budweiser or dr pepper. It would
emotions and humor of Hardos. Because this is cost: a Hardos. A guy who runs it and who always goes better poet than to shake the client's garage ... A Hardos 80 years and more. Dangerous species ... It would
synthesizers time to time to express our sadness ... and beautiful solos. Or solid.
Finally ... I not know why I break my ass to dream and try to share this dream, the kit helps you enough again. The important thing in life is not the complexity in personality, love twilight stuff too for the average citizen or flirting with daffodils by rubbing the nipples of pomade in his latest album from Antony & The Johnsons . The important thing is the engine power and the mouth of the bodywork. Grave Digger (here it will be Mr. Digger short for your leadership, lil fag) never did that shit, but in 1987 it took to do good. For the only time in flashy fashion mold-mat & balls peroxidized without losing an ounce of turbomenace and pasting some weird breaks in stride, and there I want to say that all their heartbreaking series of medieval albums, next to the pure-metal journey priest who tries to surf the wave-EUROPEANJOURNAL Europe (not EU) with the discretion of Blackie Lawless in a bookstore, well it is not the slightest hesitation. It would be like
hesitate between a harley davidson all rotten and a Honda Gold Wing brand new; t'hésiterais, you? Good.
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