Eva's blog

The Number Twelve. Twelve in the nest. Twelve in the hopper. Twelve in the bar with all their plastic devotion.  From the backfield "The Third", as is his marked digit, runs around like a decapitated chicken and somehow gains territory, and then all the bright colored gulls rejoice. These are the "cool" birds to flock with.  

Don't they know the only birds that matter wear red? Not black, not dark green, nor purple, or that obnoxious lime green. That's just point of fact. 

Still they'll be squawking from their nests. Oh how the squawking doth continue, even If the nest is empty. 

But what do they know? Nothing. They are seachickens, after all. 

In the forest there is a tree
Draped and laden with splendor too see
On a limb up high a bird makes it's nest
A jaguar then eats it at nature's request

Near the tree there is a distraught one
Draped in Orange and armed with a shotgun
On a whim and scared he makes a call
Then mounts the jaguar's head on his wall

Not far away there is his cabin
Draped in more dead things than you could imagine
On a trail outside a truck pulls over
Out gets a man with a shiny revolver

Gun in hand he kicks through the locks
As the man hangs his jaguar by the fox 
But deep beneath them a fault comes alive

Then the house collapses and both men die

[Then a fire burns down the rubble or something. I lost interest in this here.] 

I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.

- Banksy

I hope to do something other than die spiteful and miserable, the current trajectory based on observation. Maybe even go somewhere with amateur sounding shit. Just don't pay attention to the several hundreds of thousands that can do this better. 

Fuck It, I'll post all 3 parts.

Part 1 (worst one):

Part 2:

Part 3: