Snowflake Buddha, p-type

[Bled Welder]

I got this message, Twitland shoots out periodickle meassages, notifying
you of the next big thing, on Twitland, all of which is probably written by
Kohuticus, but then, right beforethat, I was reading a mail from who I
thought was  Bailey, some  completely idiotic thing about a dead person
called Keats, (which All Is Well In Town probably who has gobs and gobs and
gods to say about, like indefinitely large quantities of gobs and gobs and
gobs of endless hardcore gibberrish, about, on and fucking on, hey look at
me, don't I know a ton of pointless horseshit, what did Byron die of again,
in what southEasy country did he contract it, and what was that star, the
Dogons in Mali, say five hundred years ago, told them, they're from Sirius,
and the Dogons, unrecipient to cocksucking Galieiliolio, know, because they
were told it, apparently, by the Sirians, which, we might as well spout,
built the Giza Plateau, and who also, by the bye, were informed the Dogons,
that there's not two, but three, little teeni-weenie globs of orbital stuff
circulating the MotherShip (getting back to George Clinton), which, oddly,
curiously enough, travel to which, rounds about, Sirius, seriously, once in
fifty fucking years.

Every.  It's more like 49.76424 years, but who's counting.

What a, gosh, nice weirdly round number.  50.  And then, every where in
historical literature, the "myths", is the number fifty.

Why>?

As I was looking back for the Keats/Bailey mail because I thought suddenly
Kohuticus wrote it, I just thought, do you halfwits ever study anything,
anywhom, who predates the Greeks?  And that's not the fucking Bible
folklore?  Do you twats know *anything * about history?  Ancient. history?

I just, right now, received a spam from an eighteen year old girl called
SatanFuckinA.

And she is smoking fine, hot.

The t in Satan is a big crucifix.

On Mon, Feb 11, 2013 at 7:26 AM, <bandwraith at aol.com> wrote:

>  Each and
> Only Monadic
> unique undriven
> Flake of Snow
> Unfettered by meaning
> that melds into a river
> of sorrow
> Floats alone
>
> but should Need unexpectedly well
>
> For the crossing
> Vasudeva is there
> to share
> Their lost whole
>
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